ESTHER 

DAMON 


MRS.  FREMONT 
OLDER 


LIBRARY 

University  of 

California 

Irvine 


PS 
3529 


£88 


ESTHER    DAMON 


ESTHER   DAMON 


BY 

MRS.  FREMONT  OLDER 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1911 


COPYKIGHT,  1911,  B* 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
Published  May,  1911 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  PAGE 

I.  THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN 3 

II.  ESTHER  DAMON 71 

III.  As  YE  Sow 157 

IV.  THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL 209 

V.  LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER 309 


BOOK  1 
THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN 


"  What  ought  to  be,  can  be." 

— WILLIAM  JAMES. 


CHAPTER  I 

ORME  agreed  that  what  his  wife  said  was  true. 
As  yet,  not  entirely  awake,  he  accepted  the  blame: 
the  sheriff's  subordinates  were  in  possession  of  the 
family  home.  This  very  minute  they  were  in  the 
act  of  dismantling  it.  The  officials  had  arrived  early 
in  the  morning  from  Ripon,  the  county  seat.  Even 
ing  would  find  him  and  his  wife  without  shelter.  And 
though  he  had  reluctantly  foreshadowed  the  con 
sequences  of  his  conduct — in  fact,  had  thrust  them 
into  the  crowded,  unopened  store-room  of  the  un 
pleasant,  and  turned  the  key;  now  they  burst  the 
lock,  and  gravely  walked  out.  He  sat  up  in  his  wide 
mahogany  bed  as  if  to  confront  them  and  Alice. 
She  stood  before  him  and  with  extravagant  gestures, 
in  unlovely  fury  stridently  set  down  the  large  figures 
of  her  husband's  shiftlessness,  prodigality,  vice,  until 
the  total,  even  to  her,  was  incalculable.  Finally,  she 
made  sufficient  pause  in  her  incoherence  to  state 
clearly:  "If  you  were  a  man,  Robert,  you'd  get  up 
and  drive  these  people  away." 

He  passed  an  uncertain  hand  over  his  gray,  glazed 
face.  Bewildered,  he  looked  about  him,  started  to 
rise,  and  in  half-dazed  soliloquy,  as  if  fumbling  for 
his  thoughts,  he  said:  "Has  it  really  come  to  this? 
The  place  is  worth  at  least  twenty-five  thousand 


4  ESTHER  DAMON 

dollars,  and  it  is  mortgaged  for  only  fifteen.  They 
promised  to  give  me  another  chance."  When  his 
blank,  wandering  eyes  settled  on  his  wife's  faded, 
pretty  face,  he  went  on:  "  You  poor  Alice,  it's  hide 
ous  for  you.  I'm  so  sorry  for  you;  but,  my  girl, 
it  will  come  out  all  right  in  the  end." 

The  frugal  housewife,  whose  mind  was  narrowed 
to  the  point  under  discussion,  was  not  to  be  deflected 
from  her  critical  duty.  She  placed  herself  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed  as  if  she  held  in  her  hand  the  scales 
of  justice,  indicating  in  numerals  her  husband's  de 
ficiencies.  She  had  no  diffidence  about  weighing 
the  world.  "Much  good  your  pity  does  me,  Robert. 
I  hate  pity.  If  you  had  only  looked  out,  I  shouldn't 
need  pity  from  you  or  any  one  else.  As  it  is  you 
never  learned  that  two  from  four  leaves  two.  I 
don't  believe  you've  looked  at  a  clock  since  you 
came  back  from  the  war.  Now,  the  sheriff  is  down 
on  us  just  as  I  always  told  you  he  would  be.  But 
whiskey  made  such  a  coward  of  you  that  you  shut 
your  eyes  and  went  pell-mell  to  ruin." 

Everything  about  the  man — his  ashen,  swollen 
face,  the  relaxed  pores  of  his  skin,  the  sunken,  rest 
less,  dark  eyes,  the  indeterminate  mouth,  the  mo 
bile  eyebrows,  the  unsteady  hands,  bore  witness  to 
the  truth  of  the  words.  But  Orme  had  heard  her 
reproaches  too  often.  He  would  listen  no  more.  In 
a  voice  so  delightful  that  it  might  have  belonged 
to  another  being — perhaps,  indeed,  it  was  a  survival 
of  the  man  who  had  been — he  answered,  "I'm  very 
sorry,  Alice,  but  you  mustn't  talk.  I  can't  listen.  I 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  5 

want  to  be  alone  a  little  while.  I'll  go  down  stairs 
as  soon  as  I'm  dressed." 

"I  will  talk,"  she  answered  in  a  flare  of  wrath. 
"I'll  say  just  what  I  please.  No  one  can  stop  me. 
Pa  always  said  any  one  who  married  a  man  that 
didn't  know  how  to  do  a  useful  stroke  of  work  would 
end  in  the  poor-house." 

Alice  disdained  pauses.  Her  talk  irritated  ths 
nerves  like  constant  ticking  on  a  window  pane. 
The  mannerism  had  developed  with  the  years,  but 
her  husband  was  often  unaware  of  it.  Now  the 
mention  of  her  father,  whom  Orme  disliked,  rasped 
his  patience.  Taking  up  her  note,  he  interrupted : 
"Very  well,  Alice,  talk!  Talk!  Talk!  For  God's 
sake,  talk!  You  have  the  disease  of  chatter,  but  I 
decline  to  listen."  He  groaned,  sank  upon  the  pil 
lows  and  pressed  them  against  his  ears. 

When  a  slammed  door  proclaimed  her  departure, 
again  he  moaned.  He  knew  he  should  have  borne 
her  upbraidings.  He  deserved  them.  If  Alice  was 
without  gentle  graces  and  courtesies,  she  but  reflected 
the  meagre,  barren  village  of  Freedom  where  they 
lived.  When  he  saw  both  her  and  himself  as  they 
were,  he  rose,  tip-toed  across  the  staring  red  Brussels 
carpet ;  turned  the  key  in  the  door-lock ;  took  a  water 
glass  from  the  table;  searched  the  space  between 
the  mattresses ;  found  one  of  the  flasks  there  secreted 
and  half-filled  the  glass. 

It  was  a  part  of  Orme's  bacchanalian  ceremony, 
one  of  his  many  devices  for  self-delusion,  never  to 
drink  from  a  bottle.  A  bottle  would  have  implied  a 


6  ESTHER  DAMON 

panting  thirst,  betrayed  a  longing  more  uncontrolled 
than  he  desired  to  acknowledge  in  the  broad  sun 
light  at  nine  o'clock  on  Monday  morning.  His  self- 
respect  had  always  been  buttressed  by  his  belief 
that  he  could  drink  spirits  or  let  them  alone;  he 
usually  drank  as  he  did  now,  with  large  leisure  and 
dignity.  The  last  drop  gone,  his  eyes  brightened 
and  his  hands  became  so  steady  that  he  proceeded  to 
shave.  After  a  bath  he  poured  out  another  glass  of 
whiskey.  He  tippled  this  with  increasing  repose  and 
grace.  Later  he  completed  his  toilet. 

Once  dressed,  he  drank  what  remained  in  the 
bottle.  Then  unlocking  the  door,  he  stood,  head 
poised,  like  a  soldier  at  "Attention!"  ready  for  battle. 
Slowly  he  descended  the  winding  stairs  into  the  long, 
narrow,  white  hall  which  ran  through  the  centre  of 
the  house.  In  the  dust  stirred  by  the  sheriff's  men 
he  could  scarcely  see.  He  found  the  strangers  in 
the  nursery  of  his  infancy;  in  the  parlors  where  the 
family  festivities  had  been  held;  in  the  sitting-room 
where  his  mother's  face  still  sweetly  hovered ;  in  the 
library,  inhabited  by  immortal  spirits  which  had 
flamed  down  the  centuries  and  descended  on  him  in 
their  written  words.  Through  the  curtainless  win 
dows,  the  sun  streamed  on  a  chaos  of  chairs,  tables, 
carpets,  pictures — the  accumulation  of  nearly  a  hun 
dred  years.  All  the  doors  were  flung  open,  and 
Orme  encountered  a  summer  breeze  from  the  lake 
as  he  sought  Alice.  His  wife  was  unresponsive  to 
the  sound  of  his  voice. 

Finally  he  found  her  in  her  poor  little  world,  the 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  7 

kitchen,  where  she  had  hidden  herself  from  the  sight 
of  the  upheaval.  Here  she  sat,  her  head  on  the  table, 
as  though  the  room  were  the  stronghold  of  a  fallen 
citadel  where  she  must  brave  the  sword.  Her 
straight  thin  lips  drooped  pathetically  as  her  hus 
band  entered.  "I  can't  see  my  things  thrown  out 
of  doors,  Robert.  I'm  going  to  stay  right  here. 
These  men  shan't  put  me  out.  I  won't  leave.  I 
can't." 

Orme  placed  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders  hesi 
tatingly.  "Don't.  I  can't  stand  seeing  you  like 
this.  Why,  Alice,  even  I  don't  feel  as  you  do,  though 
this  place  means  much  more  to  me  than  it  can  to 
you.  After  all,  what's  a  house  ?  Bricks  and  wood. 
We  shouldn't  desire  anything  too  much." 

"That's  just  it,"  she  said,  flinging  back  his  arm, 
as  she  dried  her  eyes.  "That's  what  you've  always 
wanted  to  bring  me  down  to,  no  roof  over  our  heads. 
Now  it's  done,  you  say  it  doesn't  matter.  We're 
leaving  bricks  and  wood.  That's  all  you  get  out 
of  books,  new  reasons  for  throwing  your  money 
away,  new  arguments  about  how  grand  it  is  to  be 
poor." 

"We  aren't  poor,  Alice.  We're  young.  We  have 
each  other." 

"And  a  lot  that  is!"  she  answered. 

With  persistent  tenderness  he  tried  to  take  her 
hand.  She  drew  angrily  away.  Hurt  and  depressed, 
he  turned  from  her  and  entered  the  dining-room. 
The  mahogany  sideboard,  with  its  silver  and  glass 
decanters,  was  the  only  article  of  furniture  remaining 


8  ESTHER  DAMON 

in  the  room.  A  glass  of  whiskey  was  already  at  his 
lips,  when  Alice  opened  the  door. 

"Robert,"  she  protested,  springing  to  his  side, 
"you're  not  going  to  drink  on  a  day  like  this." 

"This  is  the  day  I  most  need  it.  One  must  have 
some  kind  of  a  companion,  and  whiskey  never  fails 
to  respond." 

With  a  quick,  adroit  movement  she  dashed  the 
glass  to  the  floor.  Orme  looked  at  her  for  an 
instant,  frowned,  filled  another  glass  and  slowly 
drank.  Then,  to  aggravate  the  act,  he  repeated  it, 
and  turning  to  his  wife,  said:  "You're  a  very  foolish 
woman,  a  very  foolish  woman." 

There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes.  They  had  be 
come  hard  as  gray  glass.  Standing  against  the  wall, 
her  hands  behind  her,  she  answered  with  contracted 
lips:  "And  you're  a  brute,  a  heartless  brute.  I'll 
never  forgive  you  for  this." 

Orme's  eyes  had  an  unnatural  stare.  They  seemed 
to  protrude  from  his  head.  His  cheeks  were  flushed ; 
his  thick  black  hair  was  dishevelled.  As  he  drank 
his  dignity  increased  and  his  affection  for  his  wife 
renewed  its  courage.  Somewhat  unsteadily,  he  ap 
proached  her  and  said,  "Oh,  yes,  you  will,  Alice." 

The  sheriff's  men  entered  the  dining  room  to  re 
move  the  sideboard;  before  they  carried  it  away 
Orme  seized  a  decanter  and  a  glass.  He  was  hold 
ing  them,  when  from  the  verandah  entered  a  short, 
broad-shouldered,  thick-necked  old  man,  with  a 
small  tuft  of  grizzled  hair  on  his  chin.  He  wore  a 
blue  broadcloth  coat,  a  black  stock,  and  a  hat  too 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  9 

large  for  his  head,  sinking  as  it  did  almost  to  his 
ears  which  were  half  covered  with  shaggy  hair. 

"Why,  pa!"  exclaimed  Alice  Orme. 

"Well,  doggone  it.  If  this  ain't  a  mess,  daughter," 
answered  Ira  Wherritt,  gnawing  his  finger  nails.  "I 
heerd  about  it,  and  I  come  right  up." 

"I'm  so  glad  you  did,"  answered  Alice.  Orme 
covered  the  intruder  with  hostile,  darkening  glance. 

"You  know,  Alice,"  the  old  man  went  on,  "this 
match  was  your  mother's  doing  and  yours.  It 
wasn't  any  of  mine.  I  was  always  agin  soldiers. 
But  you  women  folks  would  have  brass  buttons, 
flags,  and  hurrahs." 

Indignation  and  spirits  loosed  Orme's  tongue  to 
utter  the  words  for  a  decade  choked  down.  "Yes, 
brass  buttons,  music,  and  flying  flags — that  was  all 
you  knew  of  it.  You  stayed  at  home  and  shaved 
notes  while  we  risked  our  lives  to  do  away  with  the 
slave-pen,  the  whipping-post,  the  human  auction- 
block,  to  give  you  back  a  nation  without  a  slave,  to 
keep  alive  this  republic." 

As  Orme  spoke,  his  rising  color  emphasized  the 
scar  of  a  sabre-cut  on  the  side  of  his  neck.  On 
his  father-in-law  the  fervor  of  patriotism  was  wasted. 
The  skin  of  Wherritt's  long,  thin  nose  seemed  too 
tight,  and  gave  that  feature  a  pinched  look  as  he 
revealed  his  first-mortgage  view  of  life.  "Yes,  in 
terest  was  twelve  per  cent.  I  wasn't  fool  enough  to 
get  mixed  up  in  any  nigger  war.  I  sent  a  substitute. 
There  were  too  many  youngsters  like  you  who 
didn't  mind  a  tramp  soldier's  life.  All  you  fellows 


io  ESTHER  DAMON 

in  Freedom  that  went  were  ruined  by  it.  Ain't  dc 
a  thing  but  drink  since  you  got  back." 

Orme's  voice  was  like  a  roar  of  suppressed  flan 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "we  were  tramps,  tramping  throu 
fire  and  hell  till  our  feet  bled.  Vicksburg,  Gett; 
burg,  Libby  prison — that  was  the  kind  of  tram; 
life  we  led.  Of  course  we  drank.  Perhaps  y 
would  if  you  had  retreated  all  day,  and  were  ill  frc 
sleeping  in  marshes,  if  you'd  seen  three  of  yc 
brothers  blown  to  pieces,  and  buried  them  yoursc 
We  did  break  the  commandments,  but  we  brou^ 
something  back  with  us  here,"  he  indicated  '. 
breast.  "You  can't  buy  it.  You  know  nothi 
about  it,  though  it  bears  more  than  twelve  per  ce 
interest." 

"Beggars  ride  high  horses,  Orme,"  sneered  the  ( 
man,  pressing  his  lips  together  like  a  trap.  "Yoi 
be  a  smarter  fellow  if  you  hadn't  so  much  learni 
and  so  many  idees,  and  knew  how  to  make  an  hon 
living  and  find  a  home  for  Alice.  Of  course,  s 
always  has  a  home  with  me,  but  I  don't  take  a 
of  able-bodied  men." 

The  muscles  underneath  Orme's  flesh  quiven 
"Mr.  Wherritt,  I  shan't  consent  to  your  giving  i 
wife  a  home.  I  can  take  care  of  myself  and  Alice,  t< 

Both  Wherritt  and  Alice  stared  at  the  decanter 
which  Robert  was  clinging  as  if  to  an  anchor,  j 
understanding  glance  swept  between  father  a 
daughter.  "How  can  you  earn  a  living,"  s< 
Alice,  "when  you've  spent  your  life  drawing,  readii 
fussing  in  a  little  rigged-up  play  workshop  over  tl 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  n 

awful  old  stuff  you  call  furniture  ?  You  never  did  a 
useful  thing.  We're  as  poor  as  church  mice.  How 
can  we  live?" 

The  sheriff's  men  were  transporting  the  stove  from 
the  kitchen  to  the  garden.  Alice  looked  as  if  her 
sun  had  gone  down  forever. 

"We  shall  live  here,  Alice,"  said  Robert.  "Our 
things  needn't  be  taken  away.  I'll  run  over  to  Ripon 
and  have  a  talk  with  the  bankers.  I'm  sure  I  can 
arrange  something.  I  give  you  my  promise  we  shall 
be  back  in  the  house  within  a  few  days.  Mean 
time  we  can  board  at  Auntie  Brewster's." 

Orme's  promises,  so  frequently  offered  as  currency 
for  deeds,  long  since  had  lost  their  value.  Now  ad 
versity  touched  them  with  irony. 

"For  pity's  sake,  Robert,  what  are  we  to  live  on?" 

"It's  only  for  a  week,"  he  urged,  "until  I  can  see 
the  bankers." 

She  was  weary  of  his  evasions,  his  subterfuges,  his 
flabbiness  of  character.  It  mattered  little  if  he  was 
drunk  or  sober.  Even  when  he  was  himself,  rare  of 
late,  his  nerves  paid  for  the  high  tension  of  years. 
She  was  convinced  that  her  husband  was  dry  rot; 
the  time  had  come  when  she  must  be  guided  by  the 
sane  thinking  of  her  father.  Presently  one  of  the 
sheriff's  deputies,  a  long,  lanky  man  in  overalls, 
interrupted:  "I  don't  want  to  put  you  out,  Mis' 
Orme,  but  my  orders  was  to  lock  up  the  house  after 
all  the  things  were  gone." 

To  Alice  the  words  seemed  echoes  of  something 
meant  for  other  ears.  Orme,  pretending  not  to  hear 


12  ESTHER  DAMON 

them,  turned  his  back  on  his  wife  and  his  father-in- 
law  and  tapped  on  the  window.  "  Never  mind," 
whispered  Ira  Wherritt,  touching  his  daughter's 
elbow.  "Get  your  bonnet  on,  Sis,  and  come  home 
with  me." 

When  Alice  went  to  fetch  her  hat,  Robert  started 
to  follow.  A  look  from  her  stopped  him.  Alone 
she  passed  through  the  shabby,  high-ceilinged  rooms, 
and  closed  the  white  shutters  of  each  window  as 
one  closes  the  lids  of  the  precious  dead.  She  was 
burying  her  pride.  Ten  years  before,  she  had  come 
to  this  fine  old  house,  the  bride  of  the  great  man  of 
this  little  cross-roads  farming  centre  of  Freedom. 
The  villagers  had  always  imagined  that  Robert 
would  marry  some  one  from  "way-off."  When  Alice 
Wherritt  became  Alice  Orme  the  triumph  affected 
her  like  wine.  She  forgot  to  return  the  calls  of  some 
of  her  school  friends.  To-day,  with  bitterness,  she 
realized  what  they  were  smiling  and  saying.  Here 
and  there  in  her  walk  through  the  rooms  she  paused, 
leaned  against  the  wall,  forced  back  the  tears, 
clenched  her  hands  in  anger  and  grief.  What  right 
had  Robert  to  humiliate  her? 

Down  stairs  once  more,  face  to  face  with  her  hus 
band,  she  hated  him.  His  flurried  manner  betrayed 
that  in  her  absence  he  again  had  had  recourse  to 
the  decanter.  Whiskey  emboldened  him  to  place 
his  hand  upon  her  shoulder  as  they  passed  out  of 
the  house.  "You  don't  really  mean,  little  girl,  to 
go  home  with  your  father.  You're  surely  coming 
with  me,  aren't  you,  Alice?" 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  13 

She  looked  up  at  her  husband  like  the  organically 
moral,  unyielding,  clear-headed  young  woman  that 
she  was.  "I'll  go  with  you  when  you  get  a  home. 
Where  can  we  live  now?" 

He  spoke  as  if  he  were  a  ruler  with  a  kingdom  at 
his  disposal.  "  Wherever  you  say.  Choose." 

She  smiled  scornfully.  "I  can't  live  in  a  burying- 
ground.  That's  all  you  have  left  in  the  world." 

It  was  the  stinging  truth.  When  Alice  was  pretty 
vivacious  eighteen,  her  small  verbal  nettles  seasoned 
conversation ;  but  these  had  grown  to  be  ugly  thorns 
marking  the  distance  between  the  speech  of  an  un 
thinking  girl  and  that  of  a  humiliated  woman,  care 
less  of  the  wounds  she  made.  He  hesitated,  trying 
hard  to  control  his  trembling  nerves.  Then  wist 
fully  he  answered,  "If  you  will  remain  with  me,  we'll 
work  together.  We'll  get  back  the  old  place." 

"You're  always  doing  grand  things  when  you're 
drunk,  Robert.  Why  don't  you  do  something  when 
you're  sober?" 

"Plato  says " 

"Don't  talk  to  me  about  Plato,"  she  retorted. 
"His  name  makes  me  sick.  I  don't  read,  thank 
Heaven.  You  spend  all  your  time  with  books  when 
you  aren't  drunk,  but  what  good  do  they  do  you? 
You  read  philosophy  and  live  like  an  idiot.  Plato 
doesn't  run  your  life.  Pat  Clancy,  the  hotel-keeper 
who  sells  you  whiskey,  does." 

Alice's  words  gave  him  a  shock.  He  thought 
clearly  and  against  himself.  He  talked  about  the 
universe,  but  he  did  not  control  Robert  Orme. 


I4  ESTHER  DAMON 

"Perhaps  it's  all  true,  Alice,  but  let  me  believe  I'm 
better  than  I  am.  Help  me.  I'm  not  poor  because 
I've  lost  my  money.  I'm  poor  because  no  one  has 
confidence  in  me.  I  need  a  believer  badly.  Won't 
you  be  one?" 

He  knew  that  he  might  have  made  this  appeal 
to  a  finer,  more  experienced  being  only  to  be  denied. 
How  then  could  he  expect  to  move  Alice  who  was 
burdened  with  no  visions  of  the  impossible?  " Be 
lieve  in  you!"  she  repeated,  " Believe  in  you!  Be 
lieve  in  a  shiftless  drunkard!"  The  word  was  out; 
the  horrible,  rankling  word  held  back  during  their 
years  of  prosperity.  She  knew  its  weight.  She  had 
carried  it  long  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue.  The  sen 
tence  was  shot  at  him  like  a  bullet.  After  a  second 
she  saw  how  Orme  felt  the  hurt  of  it  as  it  gnawed  its 
way  to  his  heart. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  finally  answered.  "I  may 
be  drunk,  but  I'm  not  a  drunkard." 

"Alice,  don't  say  anything  to  him,"  interrupted  Ira 
Wherritt.  "You're  going  home  with  me.  You're 
not  going  to  trust  yourself  with  a  drunkard.  You'll 
always  have  a  home  with  me,  and  I'll  see  that  you, 
Orme,  never  get  a  cent  of  my  money." 

Robert  always  found  his  father-in-law  intolerable 
— in  manners,  in  speech,  in  his  mean  game  of  grab 
bing.  "By  all  means,  do  see  to  it.  I  never  cared 
for  my  own  money.  What  use  should  I  have  for 
yours?"  Then  Orme  turned  to  Alice:  "I  never 
told  you  how  much  I  need  you.  It's  more  than 
you  realize.  Do  remain  with  me.  You  laugh  be- 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  15 

cause  I  say  I'll  get  the  place  back  for  you,  but  I  will, 
Alice.  I'll  do  anything  if  only  you'll  not  leave  me. 
You  can  make  me  do  what  you  wish." 

Touched  by  his  appeal,  she  looked  at  her  father 
before  she  replied.  The  old  man  warned  her, 
"Every  one  must  look  out  for  himself." 

"What  pa  says  is  so,  Robert.  I've  never  had 
much  luck  making  you  do  things.  If  you  had  a 
glass  of  whiskey  in  front  of  you  now,  and  you  knew 
I'd  die  if  you  took  it,  you'd  drink  it." 

She  had  not  lived  with  him  to  be  deluded  at  the 
end  of  ten  years.  Already  he  was  shaking  with 
thirst.  He  placed  his  hands  in  his  pockets  that  she 
might  not  see  his  weakness.  "That's  your  way,"  he 
answered,  "of  saying  you're  not  my  friend  and  you 
don't  intend  to  be.  I  need  a  friend  more  than  any 
thing  else  on  earth."  His  lips  trembled,  and  his 
eyes  were  misty. 

"I  can't  be  a  friend  to  you,  Robert,"  she  returned 
more  gently,  "unless  you'll  first  be  a  friend  to  your 
self  and  get  sober." 

"I  know  I'm  drunk,"  he  returned  bitterly,  "but 
don't  remind  me  of  it  again.  I  know  I'm  wrong. 
That's  why  I  need  you.  When  we're  right,  we  don't 
need  to  ask  for  friends.  Friendship  means  to  be 
loyal,  right  or  wrong,  but  particularly  when  you're 
wrong.  You're  all  I  have  left,  and  I  want  you. 
Won't  you  stay  with  me?" 

Her  glance,  her  attitude  said  "No."  Robert  won 
dered  if  he  were  not  almost  sober.  Even  on  this 
languorous  summer  day  a  blizzard  seemed  to  bite 


1 6  ESTHER  DAMON 

his  flesh  as  he  tried  to  digest  the  meaning  of  his 
own  words,  "Then  you're  not  my  friend." 

"How  can  you  expect  it,"  the  prudent  wife  re 
plied,  "if  it  means  taking  chances  with  you?" 

He  turned  the  words  over  in  his  mind  and  replied : 
"We've  lived  together  ten  years,  all  through  the 
twenties  .  .  .  now  you  leave  me.  When  I  was 
rich  and  drunk,  you  were  my  friend.  Now  that 
I'm  poor  and  drunk,  you're  not."  Under  the  influ 
ence  of  spirits  his  penetration  was  often  sharpened. 
He  slowly  repeated  the  sentence  until  the  thought 
percolated  the  layers  of  his  perception  controlled  by 
alcohol.  Finally,  it  pierced  the  consciousness  that 
was  wholly  he.  There  the  words  registered  them 
selves  in  his  memory.  "Very  well,  Alice,"  he  said 
with  a  courteous  bow,  always  exotic  in  Freedom,  and 
now  travestied  by  his  condition,  "I  understand." 

"What's  the  use  of  talking  to  a  crazy  man,  Sis?" 
interrupted  Ira  Wherritt  as  he  took  his  daughter  by 
the  arm.  "Let's  go  home." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "he's  made  me  trouble 
enough  without  this." 

Shabby  tragedy  was  in  Alice  Orme's  manner  as 
she  left  the  porch  and  with  her  father  took  the  path 
which  led  diagonally  from  the  garden  to  the  village. 
Robert  followed  her  with  his  eyes.  For  him  the 
hour  of  despair  had  struck.  "Alice,"  he  called  out, 
"I've  been  a  pretty  bad  husband,  but  I  give  you  my 
word  I'll  be  better." 

Even  her  back  expressed  disdain.  "If  you've  got 
any  mettle  in  you,  you'll  show  it,"  Ira  Wherritt 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  17 

flung  at  Robert  as  he  and  his  daughter  continued 
their  way  under  the  pines.  The  branches  of  the 
trees  excluded  from  the  garden  the  noonday  sun. 
For  Orme  this  sheltered  light  was  darkness. 

"You  may  be  sure  you'll  see  it,"  promised  Robert 
slowly,  as  he  returned  to  the  steps  of  the  veranda. 
There,  unbelieving,  he  sat  looking  at  those  depart 
ing.  The  gate  clicked.  The  sound  was  a  physical 
blow.  His  nerves  crawled  like  worms.  He  watched 
till  his  wife  disappeared.  Then  he  took  up  the  de 
canter.  No  longer  fastidious  as  to  his  manner  of 
drinking,  detached  from  self-respect,  he  gulped  the 
whiskey  until  his  eyes  closed  in  stupor.  "Yes,  I'll 
show  you,  Alice,"  he  muttered  thickly.  "I'll  show 
you  if  it  kills  me." 

Presently  his  head  hung  limp  on  his  chest.  He 
snored  heavily  through  parted  lips.  When  the  sher 
iff's  deputies  locked  the  doors  and  left  the  house, 
the  decanter  rolled  away  from  Orme  and  broke  into 
pieces. 


CHAPTER  II 

FOR  an  hour  Robert  lay  with  life  suspended,  one 
foot  bent  under  him  exactly  as  he  had  sunk.  Then, 
frowning  and  yawning,  he  woke,  sat  up,  and  rubbed 
his  leg,  benumbed  by  his  posture.  He  looked  at  the 
shattered  decanter,  at  the  chaos  of  household  be 
longings  under  the  trees.  His  books,  the  pictures  he 
had  drawn,  the  tools  he  had  used  while  experimenting 
in  making  furniture — these  toys  of  his  manhood,  all, 
without  order,  had  been  cast  out  of  the  house  by 
indifferent  hands.  It  occurred  to  him  that  the 
strangers  had  been  no  more  heedless  about  their 
work  than  he  in  his  life.  His  gaze  rested  on  the 
vagabond  wire  fence  surrounding  the  garden,  on 
the  wide  stone  walk  intergrown  with  weeds,  on  the 
unpainted  brick  house,  on  the  uncertain  porches 
with  warped  floors,  on  the  half-hanging  shutters,  on 
the  patched  window  panes.  "Yes,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  "that's  I.  I'm  everywhere.  It's  a  photograph 
of  me." 

A  nervous  chill  swept  over  his  frame,  and  though 
the  day  was  warm  and  drowsy,  he  turned  up  his 
coat  collar.  He  had  eaten  nothing  that  morning. 
His  head  was  burning,  and  his  entire  body  was  in  a 
fever  which  made  outcry  for  the  magic  of  alcohol. 
Orme  did  not  realize  that  he  was  trembling,  that  red 
spots  had  appeared  on  his  dead,  sunken  cheeks. 

18 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  19 

His  one  desire  was  for  the  cool  bar-room  at  Clancy's 
Ivy  Green.  Ah,  the  color  of  whiskey!  The  smell 
of  it!  How  much  it  did  for  his  brain!  What  sun 
rises  it  showed  him!  What  sunsets!  What  bravery, 
what  glory,  what  love,  what  beautiful  women,  what 
heaven  it  had  given  him — yes,  and  what  hell !  Inde 
structible  happiness  was  in  a  whiskey  bottle! 

Under  the  mastery  of  the  fever  for  Clancy's  he 
hurried  down  the  walk  which  Alice  and  her  father 
had  followed.  Soon  he  lifted  the  broken  gate,  and 
struck  the  gravel  path.  Before  him,  in  a  cup  of 
small  hills,  lay  the  village  of  Freedom,  its  church 
spires  rising  above  the  trees.  Once,  as  far  as  he 
could  see  all  the  land  belonged  to  his  family.  Now, 
on  the  right  was  his  sole  possession,  a  lot  of  two  or 
three  acres  reserved  by  his  great-grandfather  as  the 
family's  last  resting-place.  When  Robert  looked  at 
the  great  oaks  and  maples  across  the  road,  the  old 
trees  trebled  in  number.  They  seemed  to  sway.  As 
he  went  on  he  recalled  how  the  land  had  been  sold, 
field  by  field.  One  lot  had  been  spent  at  Clancy's. 
Another  had  been  wasted  in  New  York.  Only  a 
small  meadow  remained  his  own.  And  this  would 
be  his  grave. 

It  did  not  occur  to  Robert  that  all  Freedom,  aware 
of  his  misfortune,  was  watching  his  unsteady  gait 
and  was  ready  to  speak  its  mind, — both  the  evil  and 
kindly  disposed.  Among  the  kindly  disposed  was 
the  Widow  Brewster,  the  boarding-house  keeper.  As 
Orme  passed  her  modest  cottage  she  stood  on  the 
steps,  enveloped  in  an  ample  blue-checked  apron, 


20  ESTHER  DAMON 

her  sleeves  rolled  about  her  elbows.  She  was  fan 
ning  herself;  she  had  just  finished  serving  dinner  to 
her  boarders.  Mrs.  Brewster  was  a  brawny,  florid, 
heavy  woman  with  bulbous,  spectacled  blue  eyes, 
and  a  gentle  mouth.  Her  masculine  head  and  hairy 
chin  gave  her  the  appearance  of  being  a  survivor  of 
the  mothers  of  the  American  Revolution.  To  Orme 
she  was  "Aunty  Brewster."  He  usually  stopped  to 
chat  with  her.  Now  he  passed  without  speaking. 

Mrs.  Snead,  wife  of  the  Baptist  deacon,  was  sit 
ting  on  her  porch.  She  called  over  the  fence  to 
the  Widow  Brewster,  "And  to  think  that  boy  et  off 
china  as  thin  as  egg-shells  every  day  of  his  life. 
Godlessness  ruined  him.  His  mother  went  to  our 
church,  but  the  old  Squire  read  Tom  Paine.  When 
the  Squire  was  senator  down  in  Albany,  they  say— 
and  I  wouldn't  put  it  beyond  him — he  shook  hands 
with  Bob  Ingersoll.  No  family  could  prosper  after 
that.  The  judgment  of  God  is  on  this  boy." 

"God,  nothing!"  snapped  the  widow,  for  she  was 
something  of  an  intellectual  bully.  "It  all  comes  of 
these  city  colleges  and  never  learning  a  boy  to  work. 
Ithaca  is  a  regular  hell-hole,  full  of  clubs.  Clubs 
would  ruin  even  a  preacher,  and  they  don't  learn 
nothing  but  devilishness  in  colleges.  I  told  Squire 
Orme  so.  I'd  tell  the  Governor  himself  the  truth. 
There  never  was  a  finer  gentleman  than  the  Squire, 
and  Bob's  a  chip  of  the  old  block  if  he  does  drink. 
Old  Wherritt's  afraid  Bob  Orme's  a-goin'  to  plant 
himself  on  him  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  He  needn't 
worry.  Bob's  a  real  nice  boy."  Mrs.  Brewster's 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  21 

emphasis  carried  her  as  far  as  the  fence  separating 
her  lot  from  the  Sneads'.  "I  was  up  to  Orme's  the 
night  he  was  born.  I  nursed  Mis'  Orme.  Bob  always 
talks  to  me  real  friendly.  He  leaves  groceries  on  my 
stoop  and  pretends  he  don't  know  where  they  come 
from.  He  never  put  on  even  after  his  father  took 
the  family  down  to  Albany.  They  say  his  wife,  that 
Alice  Wherritt — I  don't  see  what  he  ever  see  in  her 
— they  say  she's  goin'  to  leave  him.  I  always  said 
to  Brewster  I  didn't  marry  his  pocketbook,  I  mar 
ried  him.  But  these  Americans  hatched  out  in  the 
past  thirty  years  ain't  got  no  backbone  in  'em. 
They're  all  whitewash.  They  ain't  like  the  old 
stock  in  Marlboro,  Massachusetts.  I  suppose  a 
stuck-up  thing  like  Alice  Wherritt  will  be  real  citi 
fied  and  get  a  divorce." 

"O,  Mis'  Brewster,"  said  Mrs.  Snead,  hobbling 
toward  the  fence  for  closer  communication  with  her 
neighbor,  "you  don't  say!  She  wouldn't  get  a  di 
vorce,  would  she  ?  That  would  be  awful.  If  she  did 
I'd  be  ashamed  to  live  in  Freedom.  What  would 
Attica  and  Olivet  and  all  the  places  way  off  say? 
They'd  say  we  was  fast,  no  better'n  polygamists." 

A  few  minutes  later  Orme  burst  into  the  bar-room 
of  the  white,  ivy-covered  tavern  at  the  Four  Corners. 
He  had  the  joy  of  a  young  pagan  entering  the  sanct 
uary  of  a  temple  of  Dionysus.  At  last  he  could 
be  himself.  He  walked  straight  to  the  bar.  There 
stood  the  hotel  keeper's  son,  Harry  Clancy,  a  tall, 
athletic  youth  with  romantically  waving  black  hair. 
The  moment  Robert  entered  the  door  Clancy 


22  ESTHER  DAMON 

reached  for  the  whiskey.  Orme  drank  and  felt 
peace.  He  drank  again.  The  blackness  of  his 
miserable  existence  disappeared.  He  looked  about 
the  room. 

An  old  soldier  of  his  regiment  sat  alone  in  a  cor 
ner,  whining  over  an  empty  glass.  "Hello,  Mearns," 
Robert  exclaimed  convivially.  He  crossed  to  the 
table  and  touched  Mearns's  shoulder.  "What's 
the  matter,  old  man?" 

"They  say  I  can  never  carry  the  flag  again,  Dec 
oration  Day,  Captain,  because  I  was  drunk." 

"Nonsense,"  laughed  Robert. 

Tears  streamed  down  Mearns's  cheeks.  "They 
say  so,  Captain.  Tom  Tribble  is  going  to  carry  the 
flag  the  Fourth,  and  he  don't  know  how." 

"Of  course  he  doesn't.  You'll  carry  it  yourself 
I'll  arrange  that.  What'll  you  have?" 

"I'd  like  some  beer,  Captain." 

"Beer!"  scoffed  Orme.  "You're  not  following 
your  regiment.  You  didn't  desert  at  Cedar  Creek." 
He  turned  to  young  Clancy,  "Mearns  wants  beer. 
Scotch  for  me.  You  take  something  too,  Harry." 

Clancy  filled  the  order;  for  himself  he  opened  a 
box  of  cigarettes. 

"It  isn't  only  the  flag,  Captain,"  Mearns  went  on 
as  he  drank,  "but  the  old  woman  made  me  sleep  in 
the  barn  last  night  when  I  went  home.  She  says 
I've  got  to  live  there  unless  I  quit  drinking."  By 
trade,  Mearns  was  a  carpenter;  but  he  seldom 
worked.  His  wife  was  a  washer-woman  and  even 
her  earnings  he  spent  at  Clancy's. 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  23 

"Don't  mind  women,  Mearns.  My  home  is 
yours.  There  shouldn't  be  any  difference  between 
you  and  me.  There  isn't  any  Mearns.  You're  my 
brother.  If  you're  not,  there's  no  such  thing  as 
civilization."  Robert  took  another  long  drink  and 
placed  his  hand  on  the  workman's  shoulder  as  he 
continued,  "We  really  aren't  civilized,  Mearns.  Do 
you  know  what  we  are?" 

Mearns  always  liked  to  hear  Orme  talk.  It  made 
him  seem  important.  Robert,  as  usual,  answered  his 
own  question.  His  tongue  was  thick,  but  his  stream 
of  thought  flowed  on  in  stammered  words:  "We're 
a  lot  of  selfish,  industrious  insects,  like  those  in  a 
coral  reef  on  the  ocean  bed  of  ignorance.  Occa 
sionally  one  of  us  rises  to  the  surface  for  a  breath  of 
the  civilization  we  talk  about,  but  rarely  see.  We 
can't  live  more  than  a  second  in  that  air,  Mearns. 
We're  not  used  to  it.  So  we  sink  back  to  our  home 
under  the  sea.  But  I'll  get  away  from  the  coral- 
reef,  Mearns,  and  I'll  take  you  with  me." 

The  carpenter  followed  the  kindly  sound  rather 
than  the  sense  of  Orme's  words.  "That's  grand, 
Captain,"  he  said. 

Robert  called  for  another  round  of  drinks.  The 
two  men  sat  looking  like  the  moral  tragedies  they 
were  when  Orme,  in  an  increase  of  alcoholic  exulta 
tion,  went  on:  "Life  should  be  poetry,  Mearns. 
This  is  poetry.  This  is  poets'  corner."  He  turned 
to  Clancy.  "You're  a  poet,  Harry.  We're  all 
poets." 

Clancy,  standing  near  them,  smiled,  and  puffed 


24  ESTHER  DAMON 

his  cigarette,  which  he  smoked  to  avoid  drinking. 
Tapping  Robert  on  the  shoulder,  he  said,  "Yes, 
I'm  Shakespeare  himself " 

He  was  about  to  continue  when  the  eyes  of  all  in 
the  bar-room  turned  to  the  green-shuttered  door 
which  swung  noiselessly  open  and  admitted  two 
women.  One,  past  sixty,  had  rounded  shoulders, 
deep,  sad  eyes,  and  a  mouth  that  drooped.  She  wore 
a  little  black  bonnet  tied  under  her  chin,  and  a 
black  print  dress  buttoned  straight  up  to  the  throat. 
The  other  was  taller,  more  erect,  with  broader 
shoulders  and  of  stronger  mould.  Her  large,  deep- 
set,  heavy-lidded  eyes  were  reddish  brown.  Her 
skin  might  have  been  made  of  creamy  roses.  Her 
lips  were  curved  but  firm.  Her  strongly  marked 
chin  just  escaped  a  cleft.  Masses  of  dark-red 
hair,  parted  in  the  centre  over  a  wide,  fine  brow, 
hung  in  two  heavy  braids  down  her  back.  She  had 
the  aspect  both  of  girl  and  woman.  She  was  young 
and  old,  untouched  by  life  itself;  but  something  in 
her  bearing  suggested  a  pre-existence  that  had 
brought  experience  which  would  prevent  her  ever 
quite  knowing  the  youth  of  the  young.  Her  attire 
was  austere  as  that  of  the  older  woman  and  matched 
it  in  design.  She  wore  a  dark  blue  print  dress,  not 
touching  the  floor,  and  a  black  bonnet  with  a  brim 
shading  her  eyes. 

The  men  looked  at  one  another.  Women  here  in 
Pat  Clancy's!  Why,  they  crossed  the  street  to  es 
cape  even  the  fumes  from  the  bar-room.  Women 
in  Clancy's!  The  hotel  for  three  generations  had 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  25 

stood  for  all  there  was  of  vice,  of  infamy  in  self- 
respecting  Freedom.  For  fifty  years,  since  the  first 
Clancy  opened  his  tavern,  pulpits  had  fulminated 
against  the  public-house.  The  youth  of  Freedom 
had  been  warned  that  the  first  step  to  perdition  was 
playing  a  game  of  billiards  at  Clancy's.  From  that 
iniquity  few,  they  were  daily  admonished,  had  ever 
been  redeemed.  To-day  the  town  was  saying  at 
Wherritt's,  at  Spear's,  at  Hood's,  the  shops  at  the 
Four  Corners,  in  the  drug-store,  over  fences,  and 
from  house-top  to  house-top  that  the  Clancys  had 
bankrupted  young  Robert  Orme.  Yet  women  had 
come  here.  And  such  women!  They  were  as  out 
of  place  as  flowers.  It  was  not  surprising  that  in 
their  presence  the  men  were  speechless. 

The  girl  stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  her  hands 
behind  her,  while  her  eyes  studied  the  linoleum  on 
the  floor.  After  hesitating  a  second,  the  older  wom 
an,  concentrated  on  a  single  devoted  idea,  stepped 
forward  to  the  men.  Harry  Clancy,  standing  behind 
the  bar,  gesticulated  to  Orme  and  Mearns.  He 
tapped  his  forehead  solemnly.  He  recognized  the 
women  as  the  wife  and  daughter  of  the  Metho 
dist  minister,  the  Reverend  Hezekiah  Damon.  Mrs. 
Damon  had  the  bearing  of  one  daunted  by  no  duty. 
Stopping  before  the  table  where  the  men  were 
seated,  she  said,  "My  brothers,  we  are  Methodists. 
We  go  wherever  there  are  souls  to  save.  The  Spirit 
calls  us  to  the  Ivy  Green." 

The  intonation  of  her  sweet,  sanctified,  treble 
voice  indicated  that  she  realized  the  extraordinary 


26  ESTHER  DAMON 

nature  of  what  she  was  doing.  Daniel  with  lions 
glaring  at  him  was  no  braver.  Harry  Clancy  moved 
uneasily  toward  the  intruders.  The  carpenter  stared. 
Orme,  to  whom  all  dogmas  were  so  many  illusions 
of  persons  not  yet  out  of  their  intellectual  swaddling 
clothes,  placed  his  glass  upon  the  table  and  rose. 
Jesus  of  Nazareth  and  Socrates  were  his  two  great 
saints  of  history.  He  was  in  sympathetic  relation 
with  all  who  loved  or  served  either.  He  regretted 
that  their  teachings  had  not  permeated  life.  He 
knew  Mrs.  Damon,  and  he  always  felt  better  after 
their  chance  meetings  in  the  street.  Her  fragrant, 
divine  goodness  set  her  apart  from  the  rest  of  the 
world.  In  emulation  of  the  mother  of  John  Wesley, 
the  minister's  wife  taught  wherever  she  found 
listeners. 

"I  have  come  to  the  tavern,  my  friends,  because 
so  many  of  our  young  men  lose  their  lives  here,"  she 
began.  "Years  ago,  when  I  was  proud  and  worldly, 
God,  to  make  me  mindful  of  Him,  took  from  me 
three  little  ones.  Only  one  remained  and  this  child 
too,"  she  smiled  in  the  direction  of  her  daughter, 
"fell  ill.  We  feared  she  would  be  taken  home.  I 
made  a  covenant  with  Jesus,  if  her  life  was  spared, 
to  devote  the  remainder  of  my  days  to  soul-saving. 
I  promised  also  to  dedicate  my  daughter  to  the  same 
holy  work." 

Mrs.  Damon  looked  pleadingly  at  the  girl  who, 
awkward,  embarrassed,  reluctantly  came  forward 
and  slowly  placed  her  relaxed  fingers  in  those  of  her 
mother.  "The  power  of  God  must  come  down 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  27 

here,"  Mrs.  Damon  went  on,  "and  save  this  wicked 
Freedom.  Oh,  the  vanity,  the  sin  of  Freedom!" 
She  spoke  as  if  she  were  a  spectator  of  the  tragedy 
of  their  lives.  "My  friends,  turn  from  the  error  of 
your  ways."  Then  she  said,  with  exquisite  humility: 
"I  know  I  am  a  great  sinner,  but  I  have  passed 
from  death  unto  life.  Have  you?"  She  addressed 
Clancy,  who  smoked  on  without  reply,  vexed  at 
being  questioned  by  one  he  considered  half-de 
mented.  The  end  of  his  patience  was  reached 
when  Mrs.  Damon  said:  "I'm  afraid  you've  not 
been  born  again,  my  brothers,  or  you  wouldn't 
drink.  Young  men,  break  your  idols.  Quench  the 
fires  of  your  lusts.  Pray  until  you  no  longer  have 
unclean  lips  or  thoughts.  Come  to  Jesus.  He's 
better  than  tobacco  and  whiskey." 

On  account  of  the  comfortless,  repressive  standard 
of  the  early  Methodist  faith,  public  sentiment  toward 
it  in  Freedom  was  almost  like  persecution.  Un 
popularity  had  intensified  the  fervor  of  its  professors 
into  a  passion.  "Young  men,  leave  this  tavern," 
Mrs.  Damon  pleaded  in  a  warm,  tender  voice.  "I 
see  you  all  asleep  in  a  den  of  savage  beasts.  Awake." 
She  turned  again  to  Harry  Clancy.  "I  pray  for  all 
you  Catholics,  my  brother.  Your  soul  especially 
troubles  me,  for  it  is  written  that  no  idolater  has  in 
heritance  in  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  Won't  you 
come  to  Jesus?" 

The  confused  young  man  looked  at  his  watch.  "I 
don't  talk  Jesus  here,  Mrs.  Damon." 

"And  I,"  she  answered,  "talk  of  Him  wherever  I 
find  sin." 


28  ESTHER  DAMON 

Clancy  freed  himself  by  stepping  out  on  the 
veranda.  As  he  turned  his  back,  Mrs.  Damon's 
last  word  was:  "The  Lord  won't  abandon  you  even 
if  you  deny  Him,  young  man.  There  is  always  hope. 
Ask  Him."  Her  sad,  sweet  smile  returned  to  Orme. 
"You  are  not  going  away  too,  are  you,  my  friend? 
I  don't  talk  like  this  because  I  wish  to  intrude  on 
your  privacy.  I  am  nothing.  The  Voice  of  the 
Holy  Spirit  told  me  to  come  to  you."  Her  quaint 
utterance  had  the  calm  of  one  who  spoke  with 
angels  and  with  God.  "I  go  where  He  directs. 
To-day  He  says  you  are  sad  and  no  one  but  Jesus 
can  cure  you  of  your  love  for  strong  drink." 

"You're  very  good,  Mrs.  Damon,  but  I'm  afraid 
what  you're  saying  is  out  of  the  question."  Orme 
found  himself  again  returning  to  the  world  as  it 
was  without  the  mystic  enchantment  of  spirits.  "No 
power  can  help  me,"  he  added  desperately.  "I 
don't  want  to  be  cured.  I  want  to  stay  drunk." 
Once  more  he  craved  that  intensity  of  consciousness 
created  in  him  by  alcohol.  His  frayed  nerves 
goaded  him.  "When  I'm  drunk,  life  is  beautiful. 
I  have  everything.  I  am  everything.  I  live  in  the 
world  of  the  ideal,  something  those  who  are  sober 
know  nothing  about.  When  I'm  myself  life  is  hell." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "that  is  what  God  charges 
us  for  false  beauty,  hell."  Robert's  hands  moved 
restlessly  about  his  clothes.  His  forehead  was 
moist.  The  minister's  wife  went  on  compassion 
ately:  "Why  not  give  your  life  the  true  beauty? 
You  can  if  you  will  try."  He  looked  from  one  side 
of  the  room  to  the  other,  wondering  how  much 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  29 

longer  she  would  remain,  how  long  before  he  could 
get  another  drink.  "You  don't  mean,  my  friend, 
you  never  intend  to  do  better?  That  would  be  too 
sad.  The  Lord  wouldn't  allow  it.  You  must  do 
better.  Why,  you've  lived  all  your  life  in  the  house 
with  the  portrait  of  John  Wesley.  I've  often  gone 
there  to  pray  with  your  dear  wife.  I've  touched 
that  portrait  of  Wesley.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Orme  told 
you  I  wished  to  touch  something  close  to  him." 
He  nodded  gravely.  "I  talked  with  Wesley  of  you. 
He  promised  to  save  you.  Won't  you  let  him  lead 
you  to  Jesus?" 

Orme's  life  for  a  decade  had  been  sinking  into 
shadows.  On  this  sinister  day  Mrs.  Damon's  voice 
was  like  a  beatitude.  Her  simple  emotion  of  kind 
ness  seemed  divine.  Deeply  touched,  he  answered 
gently,  "I  think  not,  Mrs.  Damon." 

Misinterpreting  the  gratitude  in  his  tone,  the  min 
ister's  wife  spoke  more  rapidly:  "Of  course  you 
will,  dear  brother.  Think  of  what  you  were  when 
you  came  back  from  the  war.  People  said  if  you 
had  gone  to  West  Point  you'd  have  been  as  great 
as  General  Grant.  They  wanted  to  see  you,  to 
look  at  a  real  hero.  You  had  your  pick  of  the  young 
ladies  of  the  village.  My  poor  boy,  go  over  to  that 
mirror  and  look  at  yourself  now." 

Instinctively  he  shrank  back.  "No,  I  don't  bother 
myself  about  mirrors." 

"If  you  did,  my  friend,  you'd  see  sin  written  all 
over  you.  Do  you  never  pray?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  think  much  about  a  Provi- 


3o  ESTHER  DAMON 

dence  that  interferes  with  the  world  plans  for  me. 
If  I  could  it  would  be  comforting,  but,  Mrs.  Damon, 
imagine  a  God  that  can  stand  me." 

"Won't  you  let  us  pray  for  you,  Captain?" 

Orme  perceived  the  sympathy  in  her  gentle  eyes 
and  modified  his  attitude.  "If  you  think  me  worth 
your  prayers,  ...  it  is  kind  of  you  to  trouble." 

Although  his  nerves  squirmed  and  his  mind 
failed  to  focus  with  precision,  he  noticed  that  the 
younger  woman  seemed  weary,  as  of  an  oft-told 
story.  So  he  was  not  surprised  when  the  minister's 
wife  kneeled  down  on  both  knees  before  the  chair 
vacated  by  Clancy  that  she  was  obliged  to  pluck 
the  girl's  skirt  and  to  repeat,  "Esther!  Esther 
Damon!" 

The  daughter  sank  to  her  knees.  Then  the 
mother  reverently,  fervently,  with  deep  beauty, 
prayed,  prayed  as  the  first  believers  in  their  tents 
beneath  the  desert  sky  might  have  petitioned  the 
Almighty.  With  bowed  head  Orme  listened  to  Mrs. 
Damon's  utterance.  But  he  observed  that  Esther 
Damon's  wandering  eyes  surveyed  the  scene  through 
the  lattice-work  of  her  fingers. 


CHAPTER  III 

ORME  was  exhausted  by  the  effort  to  talk  with 
Mrs.  Damon.  When,  however,  he  had  drained  the 
glass  on  the  table,  he  felt  a  renewal  of  strength.  He 
said  to  Clancy  who  had  been  studying  him  with  per 
plexity,  "Bring  me  more  of  that  stuff,  Harry." 

Closing  his  eyes  Orme  felt  no  longer  defied  by 
black  calamity.  His  calamity  was  his  wife,  his  life, 
the  village  of  Freedom  and  that  larger  world  it  min 
iatured.  He  opened  his  eyelids  for  an  anodyne. 
It  was  sparkling  before  him.  After  filling  Mearns's 
glass  he  served  himself.  The  sunshine  streaming 
through  the  window  took  on  new  warmth.  It  beat 
down  from  a  tropical  sun.  A  voluptuous  sense  of 
summer  possessed  Robert,  a  summer  he  had  never 
seen;  which  never  ventured  to  appear  in  innocent, 
cloistered  Freedom;  a  summer  he  had  dreamed 
might  exist  in  a  magnolia  forest  on  some  golden 
Southern  island.  This  sense  moved  him  to  exclaim 
to  the  soldier:  " Whiskey,  a  lust,  an  appetite!  That 
was  what  the  preacher's  wife  said.  Little  she 
knows!  The  only  trouble  with  whiskey  is,  there 
isn't  half  enough  in  the  world.  Cheer  up,  Mearns," 
he  said,  shaking  the  carpenter.  "Don't  look  as  if 
you'd  lost  every  friend.  If  I  felt  as  miserable  as 
you  when  I  drink  I'd  never  take  a  drop.  Be  happy 

31 


32  ESTHER  DAMON 

with  me.  'Let  us  fill  ourselves  with  costly  wine, 
and  let  no  flower  of  spring  pass  us  by.  Let  us 
crown  ourselves  with  rosebuds  before  they  wither.' 
I  can  quote  scripture,  too.  It  doesn't  sound  like 
scripture,  does  it?  Let's  crown  ourselves  with 
rosebuds." 

The  slow,  phlegmatic  carpenter  was  still  suffi 
ciently  sober  to  regret  seeing  Captain  Orme,  whom 
he  had  followed  for  two  years  over  Southern  battle 
fields,  now  make  a  fool  of  himself.  Orme  con 
tinued  to  drink  until  time  was  turned  backward 
ten  years  and  there  was  never  a  chill,  a  harsh  voice, 
nor  an  ugly  thing  in  existence.  In  his  fancy  he 
had  just  returned  from  the  war,  ready  and  eager  to 
live.  Alice  was  a  lovely  fair-haired  girl.  They 
spoke  to  each  other  in  the  old  tones.  The  old 
glances  were  exchanged.  This  was  the  evening 
she  promised  to  be  his  wife.  He  took  another 
drink  and  decided  to  go  to  Alice.  She  must  be 
expecting  him.  He  loved  her.  They  loved  each 
other.  He  wished  to  make  her  happy.  He  wished 
to  make  every  one  happy. 

As  Orme  staggered  to  the  door  his  feet  seemed 
to  be  made  of  spongy  cushions.  He  lurched  into 
the  street  and  clung  to  a  hitching-post  in  front  of 
Clancy's.  To  the  amazement  of  the  lame  hostler 
who  was  lighting  his  pipe,  Robert,  thus  anchored, 
viewed  the  Four  Corners  of  Freedom:  the  farm 
horses  drinking  out  of  the  trough  in  front  of  Wher- 
ritt's  store;  the  loitering  school  children  just  dis 
persed  by  the  bell  of  the  Freedom  Academy;  Georg- 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  33 

iana  Posey,  the  milliner,  with  clusters  of  brown  curls, 
and  a  simpering  smile,  who  gave  him  a  swift,  ter 
rified  look  as  she  passed  into  Hood's  merchandise 
store  opposite  Clancy's.  In  this  attitude  he  en 
deavored  to  get  his  bearings  in  an  unreal,  chaotic 
blur  of  dancing  shadows.  Presently,  he  moved  on 
ward,  only  occasionally  reeling.  He  was  sustained 
by  the  knowledge  that  he  was  going  to  Alice. 

The  gate  before  the  white,  bank-like,  solid-looking 
Wherritt  residence  did  not  open  in  response  to 
Orme's  uncertain  fingers,  and  so  he  entered  through 
the  drive  way.  As  he  mounted  the  steps  of  the 
small,  inhospitable  porch  and  pulled  long  at  the 
bell,  he  saw  Ira  Wherritt,  coatless,  clipping  a  hedge 
near  the  barn.  There  was  no  response  to  Robert's 
demand  for  admission.  He  rang  long,  angrily. 
Silence.  He  rang  again.  No  answer.  He  tugged 
violently  at  the  bell  and  wrenched  the  brass  knob 
from  its  socket.  Then  he  beat  upon  the  door  with 
such  vehemence  that  even  Aunty  Brewster  over  the 
way  came  to  her  window.  Again  silence.  He  tried 
to  open  the  door.  It  was  locked.  He  threw  his 
body  against  the  door.  If  they  did  not  open  he 
would  break  into  the  house  and  take  Alice  away  by 
force.  She  was  his  wife.  She  belonged  to  him. 

Suddenly  the  door  yielded.  Frowning,  Ira  Wher 
ritt  confronted  him. 

"Well?"  That  was  how  the  money-lender  ad 
dressed  a  poor  man. 

"I  want  to  see  Alice." 

"She  won't  see  you." 


34  ESTHER  DAMON 

"She  must." 

Wherritt  glared  at  Orme  as  if  he  had  refused  to 
pay  usury.  "If  you  come  here  again,  I'll  call  in 
Constable  Diggs  and  have  you  arrested  for  beg 
ging." 

Orme  dropped  the  door-knob.  "You'll  have 
me — "  Had  he  sunk  so  low?  "Why,  you  old 
thief — "  he  said,  in  a  frenzy  of  rage.  Then  he 
stopped  and  went  abruptly  down  the  steps,  mum 
bling,  on  his  way  to  the  tavern.  "He'll  have  me 
arrested  because  I  want  my  wife."  The  azure  went 
out  of  the  sky.  The  sun  was  no  longer  tropical. 
What  was  the  use?  He  would  drink  always,  and 
then  sleep.  Then  drink  again. 

Pat  Clancy  and  his  son,  Harry,  sitting  on  the 
veranda,  feigned  not  to  observe  Orme  entering 
the  unoccupied  bar-room.  None  came  to  serve 
him.  He  furiously  hammered  the  bar  with  his 
fists  until  some  of  the  glasses  rolled  upon  the  floor 
and  broke.  The  noise  brought  the  heavy  figure  of 
the  elder  Clancy  to  the  threshold. 

"What  in  hell  are  you  making  all  that  racket 
for,  Orme?"  growled  the  bloated,  red-faced  tavern 
keeper. 

Robert  stood  leaning  against  the  bar.  "I  want  a 
drink,  Clancy,"  he  replied,  resentful  of  the  pre 
meditated  indignity  of  the  Clancys.  Since  coming 
into  his  inheritance  Orme  had  for  the  most  part 
maintained  the  tavern.  The  innkeeper  filled  the 
glass,  but  as  Robert  raised  it  to  his  lips,  his  hand 
shook  until  part  of  the  contents  spilled  upon  his 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  35 

coat.  After  emptying  a  second,  third,  and  fourth 
glass  he  sat  before  the  table  and  asked  for  more. 

"Say,  Orme— "  said  Pat  Clancy,  with  the  bottle 
in  his  hand. 

"Mr.  Orme,  Clancy,"  corrected  Robert. 

"Well,  say,  Captain,  you're  damned  high-toned  all 
of  a  sudden.  Who's  standing  for  all  this  stuff  you've 
taken?" 

"I  am,  sir,"  answered  Robert,  raising  his  head 
only  to  allow  it  to  sink  to  his  breast. 

Clancy  stroked  his  long,  silken,  iron-gray  side 
whiskers,  his  manifest  glory,  and  said,  "Not  in  the 
Ivy  Green  any  more.  I'm  willing  to  call  the  bill 
I've  got  against  you  square  if  you'll  get  old  Wherritt 
to  go  security  for  you." 

Anew,  Robert  became  acquainted  with  the  squalid 
infirmity  of  poverty.  "My  name  is  as  good  se 
curity  as  there  is  in  Freedom." 

Clancy  glanced  at  the  sheriff's  notice  on  the  wall 
announcing  the  public  auction  on  the  following  day 
of  Orme's  live-stock.  Plainly  in  his  mind  there  were 
two  sides  to  the  question.  "I  wish  the  Ivy  Green 
could  run  on  air,  but  we've  got  to  have  money." 

Robert's  voice  was  thick  and  hoarse  as  he  stam 
mered:  "On  considering  it,  Clancy,  I  can't  afford 
to  be  seen  here  any  more.  I'll  have  my  wine  sent 
from  the  city.  Good-day." 

With  the  assistance  of  a  chair  Orme  rose,  his 
hat  awry.  Both  father  and  son  smiled  as  Robert 
tottered  westward,  resting  at  intervals  against  fences 
and  the  old  black-bodied  maple  trees.  With  great 


36  ESTHER  DAMON 

difficulty  he  proceeded  toward  what  yesterday  was 
his  home. 

After  passing  the  straggling  cottages  on  the  edge 
of  town,  Orme  began  the  toilsome  ascent  of  the  hill. 
Once  at  the  top,  as  he  looked  to  the  left,  his  stupefied 
intelligence  recognized  that  he  still  had  a  right  to 
the  few  acres  of  land  long  before  reserved  by  his 
kinsmen  as  the  burial-place  for  their  descendants. 
It  was  on  an  elevation  quite  ten  feet  above  the  road. 
The  height  seemed  insurmountable  to  Orme.  But 
here  was  something  belonging  to  him.  From  this 
spot  no  one  had  a  right  to  eject  him. 

Effort  after  effort,  he  put  forth  in  a  vain  endeavor 
to  clamber  up  the  perpendicular  surface.  Only 
through  a  dumb  animal  stubbornness  did  he  at  last 
find  himself  clinging  to  the  fallen  stone  wall  at  the 
top  by  which  the  lot  was  enclosed.  He  stumbled 
heedlessly  through  the  wild-rose  bushes  and  seated 
himself  on  a  thick  tangled  bed  of  myrtle.  He  turned 
his  face  toward  the  sun. 

"The  sunset  is  just  as  beautiful  as  ever,"  he  mut 
tered.  "I  can  look  at  that."  But  his  heart  surged 
with  bitterness  against  the  injustice  of  the  world. 
"Damn  the  very  words  rich  and  poor.  I  hate  the 
sound  of  them.  I'll  abolish  them  and  substitute 
happiness."  His  exaltation  was  soon  swept  away 
by  actuality.  "No,  I  can't  do  it.  Some  master 
mind  will.  I  shan't  live  to  see  it."  The  black  bar 
barous  centuries  inevitable  before  the  great  hour 
should  arrive  bore  down  upon  Robert.  He  sank 
backward  in  the  dumb  oblivion  of  drunkenness. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BEFORE  Orme  opened  his  eyes  the  following 
morning,  without  realizing  why,  he  gave  a  deep 
sigh  like  a  groan.  His  aching  head  lay  lower  than 
his  feet.  In  his  suffering  he  wondered  for  an  instant 
if  he  had  been  wounded.  This  wasn't  that  beautiful, 
tearless  world  he  had  always  dreamed  of.  From 
the  chaotic  fragments  of  his  brain  he  tried  to  recall 
what  had  happened  the  previous  day. 

Out  of  the  thicket  of  yesterday  one  fact  defined 
itself:  he  had  lost  his  companion  of  ten  years. 
Alice  was  no  longer  with  him.  From  this  nucleus 
Robert  retraced  the  hours  to  the  visit  of  the  sheriff's 
deputies  in  the  morning  and  the  eviction  from  his 
home.  As  a  final  test  of  fortitude  came  the  igno 
miny  of  being  turned  out  of  the  Ivy  Green.  How 
he  came  to  be  here  in  the  burial  ground  he  could  not 
surmise.  On  the  whole,  he  was  glad  of  this  mys 
tery.  Knowledge  would  bring  him  neither  credit 
nor  solace.  Alice's  barbed  words  darted  through 
his  memory.  He  accepted  Alice's  truth.  He  had 
lived  like  a  fool.  Pat  Clancy  ruled  him.  He  was 
an  alcoholic  slave. 

Orme  realized  this  was  deplorable  because  he  had 
known  better.  The  splendid  qualities  of  his  for 
bears,  his  liberal  education,  his  love  of  the  noblest 

37 


38  ESTHER  DAMON 

human  attributes  must  have  contributed  a  moral 
insight  quite  wanting  in  the  crude  ruminations  of 
Freedom.  And  yet,  notwithstanding  his  subtler 
distinctions  of  right  conduct,  insidious  vice  had 
swept  him  in  the  wrong  direction,  while  he,  Robert 
Orme,  stood  looking  on  like  an  impotent  spectator. 

Sometimes,  it  was  true,  he  had  protested;  again, 
half  resolved,  never  wholly  resolved,  never  com 
manded  himself.  He  had  usually  done  the  worst 
that  lay  in  his  power.  Was  he  to  continue  this  con 
tradiction  between  knowledge  and  action  ?  Was  his 
will  palsied?  Had  he  no  character?  Was  he  to 
pursue  his  useless,  dreamy,  purposeless  existence 
until  he  should  come  to  this  lot  to  remain  ? 

Robert  sat  reflecting  until  a  chill  seized  him.  His 
teeth  chattered.  His  hands  trembled.  He  knew  his 
diseased  nerves  were  crying  out  for  reinforcement. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  as  he  felt  himself  sink  under  the 
assault,  "what  Alice  said  was  true.  I'm  a  drunk 
ard." 

But  no  sooner  had  he  made  the  confession  than 
the  words  struggled  to  wriggle  away,  to  deny  them 
selves.  No,  he  was  not  a  drunkard.  He  drank 
because  he  needed  a  stimulant.  He  drank  with  the 
old  soldiers  for  conviviality,  for  the  sake  of  the  days 
when  they  were  together  on  the  battle  field.  He 
drank  to  resolve  not  to  drink.  His  entire  mental 
infirmity  summoned  a  score  of  perjured  witnesses 
to  forswear  the  truth;  but  his  reason  held  its  own. 
As  a  small  force  of  patriots  will  often  overcome  an 
army  of  mercenaries,  the  truth  was  not  to  be  gain- 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  39 

said.  It  was  there  in  his  unfastened  boots,  in  his 
grimy  hands,  in  his  clothing  reeking  with  whiskey. 

"Yes,  I'm  a  drunkard,"  he  repeated,  " kicked  out 
by  every  one.  I'm  the  town  drunkard."  He  held 
the  thought  before  him  in  a  kind  of  triumph.  He 
wished  to  force  himself  to  face  it.  He  must  not 
allow  it  to  slip  away.  He  must  adopt  it,  affirm  it. 
In  this  unwonted  act  he  found  strength.  He  tried 
to  take  one  more  step  forward  and  face  the  crisis; 
but  so  great  was  the  opposing  force  that  it  was  as 
if  within  him  were  two  beings.  One  commanded 
the  other.  "Stand  up,  man.  Let  me  examine  you. 
What  is  your  name  ?" 

He  rose  with  difficulty,  swaying  from  weakness. 
"Robert  Orme." 

"What  is  your  occupation?" 

"I'm  a  tramp." 

"What  excuse  have  you  for  living?" 

"None." 

"Of  what  use  have  you  ever  been?" 

"None.  I  once  thought  that  to  kill  men  in  order 
to  make  men  free  was  some  use.  Now  I  doubt 
it." 

Search  as  he  would,  his  life  seemed  useless  as  the 
wine-bottles  he  had  drained.  Behind  him  was 
blackness.  Into  that  he  could  not  sink.  He  must 
go  forward.  His  mistakes  in  the  past  should  guide 
him.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  opposed  his 
appetite,  and  there  in  the  high  light  of  his  con 
sciousness  he  in  this  wise  condemned  himself: 
"Robert  Orme,  I  give  you  one  more  chance.  I 


40  ESTHER  DAMON 

sentence  you  to  go  without  stimulants  of  any  kind 
for  twenty-four  hours." 

These  words  spoken,  his  will  flagged  as  though 
disease  were  in  every  cell  of  his  body.  He  sat  down. 
Soon,  however,  he  rose.  His  lips,  his  tongue,  his 
throat  were  burning.  He  must  have  water.  Now  he 
recalled  that  there  was  a  spring  on  the  lot.  Here 
was  the  first  site  chosen  by  the  Reverend  John  Orme 
when  he  came  to  northern  New  York  from  Mary 
land  early  in  the  century.  The  chestnut  and  oak 
trees  had  been  left  standing  and  the  field  appeared 
to  await  a  dwelling.  Orme  walked  to  the  farther 
end  of  the  cemetery.  Bubbling  out  of  the  ground 
was  the  spring  which  had  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  pioneers.  He  kneeled  down  and  lapped  the 
water.  Could  he  never  quench  the  parching  thirst  ? 
When  he  was  able  to  swallow  no  more,  he  moistened 
his  handkerchief,  bathed  his  head,  his  temples,  his 
eyes,  and  held  it  at  the  base  of  his  throbbing  brain. 
Robert  had  no  sense  of  hunger,  but  rather  of  weak 
ness.  Only  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  wild  cherry 
tree  scarlet  with  fruit  did  he  realize  that  he  would 
like  to  eat  something  sour,  hot,  and  pungent.  Stand 
ing  under  the  small  low  tree  he  refreshed  himself 
with  the  bitter  juice. 

Afterward  he  walked  about  the  lot.  In  one  corner 
of  the  field  he  came  upon  the  ground  where  were 
interred  the  finer,  stronger  spirits  of  his  kin,  each 
of  whom  had  left  behind  him  noble  traditions.  The 
largest  head-stone  was  that  of  the  first  pioneer. 
Unshaken  by  the  wintry  blast,  it  had  stood  upright 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  41 

for  nearly  a  century.  Reading  the  epitaph,  "He 
did  the  best  he  could,"  Orme  recalled  that  in  his 
earlier  judgment  those  had  seemed  tepid,  parochial 
words.  This  morning  they  were  a  reproach  to  him. 
Near  at  hand  was  the  modest  monument  to  the 
second  Reverend  John  Orme.  Farther  to  the  rear 
lay  Robert's  own  parents.  Beside  them  were  three 
small  stones  marking  the  empty  graves  of  his 
brothers  who  marched  away  to  war  with  him,  but 
who  did  so  much  better  than  he.  They  never  re 
turned.  He  dared  go  no  farther;  dared  not  shut  in 
between  them  and  himself  his  recollection  of  them, 
and  his  affront  to  them  as  he  now  appeared.  Fleeing 
from  their  dust  he  passed  in  the  opposite  direction. 

With  such  rapidity  did  he  overleap  the  fence  that 
he  surprised  himself  hurrying  down  into  the  road. 
Where  was  he  going?  Into  the  village  with  the 
hope  of  finding  whiskey  at  the  drug-store.  He 
stood  amazed.  Had  he  no  self-direction?  If  alco 
hol  had  been  a  reasoning  being  it  could  scarce  have 
acted  with  better  intelligence  in  undermining  his 
will.  He  called  a  halt;  but  urged  by  the  uncanny, 
treacherous  undercurrent  of  his  nature,  on  he  went. 
Only  an  hour  since  he  had  resolved  never  to  drink 
again.  In  sixty  minutes  his  strength  had  been 
beaten  down.  Once  he  had  thought  to  obtain  self- 
government  by  one  mighty  effort;  but  the  years 
were  leagued  against  him.  What  could  his  poor 
volition  do  against  the  bent  of  time? 

Again  he  called  a  halt.  His  appetite  obeyed  the 
lash  of  the  whip  of  his  will.  A  thrill  of  power  shot 


42  ESTHER  DAMON 

through  him  as  he  obtained  his  first  victory.  Hesi 
tating  he  stood,  his  weight  on  his  forward  foot. 
Was  this  the  golden  moment  in  which  he  should 
free  himself  from  himself?  His  moral  knowledge 
came  out  of  the  shadows  where  it  had  been  hiding 
and  warned:  "This  is  your  last  chance.  Now  you 
measure  your  manhood."  He  wavered  for  a  second, 
seeming  to  go  forward.  Then,  suddenly,  with  a 
slow  grim  heave  of  the  entire  will,  he  turned  and 
walked  in  the  opposite  direction. 

This  desperate  push  for  self-mastery  was  the  first 
time  he  had  resisted  the  full  driving  force  of  his  vice. 
Of  such  far  reaching  significance  was  the  act  that  it 
pervaded  his  entire  existence.  Yet  the  moment  was 
not  the  magical  one  in  which  he  had  dreamed  he 
should  find  freedom,  but  a  gray,  dingy  moment  in 
which  the  world  went  black.  His  feet  were  weighted 
as  he  dragged  them  away  from  the  town.  At  the 
top  of  the  hill  he  breathed  heavily  and  paused. 

Westward  was  a  lake,  sparkling  in  the  sunlight. 
The  smiling  placid  water  summoned  him.  Swim 
ming  had  been  his  boyhood  sport  in  summer;  now 
he  yielded  to  the  azure  lure  of  the  water.  His  first 
step  along  the  road  through  the  clover  and  sweet- 
smelling  orchards — launched  him  in  an  existence  of 
changed  intention.  As  he  proceeded  he  felt  him 
self  grow  and  strengthen.  This  slight  resistance  to 
the  habit  of  years  gave  his  will  a  motive  power, 
helped  him  hew  a  path  through  the  jungle  of  his 
nature. 

Swimming  washed  some  of  the  tavern  out  of  him. 


43 

He  felt  calmer  and  dozed  in  the  sun.  When  he  woke 
once  more  he  seemed  to  have  a  new  will  centre. 
He  refused  to  look  at  himself  as  a  failure.  He 
could  not  be  a  failure  while  he  had  youth.  His 
throat  swelled  as  he  reflected  that  some  of  the  best 
years  of  his  life  might  still  be  his — years  to  shape 
and  mould  after  the  pattern  in  his  glowing  imag 
ination.  But  there  was  Alice — he  would  yet  make 
her  happy. 

How  much  youth  still  remained  in  Orme  that 
he  could  again  have  faith  in  a  nobler  future  for 
himself!  A  smile  of  hope  lighted  his  young-old 
gray,  seamed,  flabby  face  as  he  went  toward  Free 
dom.  He  had  gone  nearly  a  mile  when  he  met  a 
band  of  wandering  players  who  a  few  days  before 
had  given  a  tent  production  of  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin 
in  the  village.  They  were  travelling  in  wagons  to 
Attica  and  were  laughing.  It  seemed  to  him  strange 
that  any  one  could  laugh  to-day.  As  he  gazed  after 
them  the  sand  in  the  road  was  blown  hither  and 
thither  by  the  summer  whirlwind.  He  sadly  likened 
himself  to  that  dust. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill,  looking  down  into  Freedom, 
he  saw  a  crowd  gathered  in  the  garden  of  his  former 
home.  The  auction  sale  of  his  belongings  was  be 
ing  held.  Suddenly  he  recalled  his  need  of  a  barber. 
Half-way  down  the  descent  to  the  town  he  stopped 
in  alarm.  Again  he  was  possessed  by  an  alcoholic 
delusion.  The  sight  of  the  auction  crowd  had 
driven  him  pell-mell  into  the  village  for  whiskey. 
His  self-discovery  was  a  shock.  He  sifted  himself 


44  ESTHER  DAMON 

in  disgust.  Was  he  worth  saving?  Was  it  not 
better  for  him  to  shrink,  nerveless  from  the  fight,  as 
unfit?  Of  what  use  was  such  quicksilver  as  he? 
Was  the  great  expenditure  of  strength  with  a  doubt 
ful  result  worth  making?  Alice  was  right;  he  read 
philosophy  as  self-indulgence  and  he  lived  like  a 
fool.  When  his  need  was  so  great,  which  one  of  all 
those  friends,  ancient  or  modern,  whose  beautiful 
thoughts  had  been  a  sanctuary  where  he  took  refuge 
from  the  ignorance  of  Freedom,  could  help  him  to 
new  life?  Orme  passed  them  in  review.  Philos 
ophy  wasn't  worth  a  damn  when  he  needed  it. 

But  there  was  a  hand  stretched  out — the  hand  that 
wrote  these  words,  "Whatever  ought  to  be,  can  be." 
The  sentence  had  a  magnificent  redemptive  meaning 
for  Robert.  He  stood  repeating,  "Whatever  ought 
to  be,  can  be."  Tears  filled  his  eyes.  These 
syllables  compelled  service  of  his  feet,  his  senses. 
They  became  a  passionate,  flaming  faith.  With  their 
aid  he  turned  back,  and  mounted  the  hills — this 
time  with  ease. 

"Once!  Twice!  Three  times!  And  gone!"  He 
heard  the  auctioneer  call.  He  could  listen  no  more. 
He  lowered  his  head  and  went  toward  the  lake  re 
peating,  "Whatever  ought  to  be,  can  be."  But 
the  auctioneer's  voice  followed  him,  "Going!  Going! 
Gone!"  Orme  came  back,  and  with  every  step 
thorns  seemed  to  press  into  his  flesh.  Yet  he  re- 
descended  the  hill,  passed  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
village,  then  manfully  turned  round.  Thus  he 
wearied  himself  till  twilight  when  he  saw  the  people 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  45 

leaving  the  old  garden.  They  had  come  from  all 
directions  and  were  present  in  great  numbers.  The 
Orme  auction  was  a  fashionable  event. 

Robert  saw  the  family  carriage  driven  away,  the 
carriage  that  had  been  the  Sabbath  spectacle  in  Free 
dom  when  Squire  and  Mrs.  Orme  and  their  four 
sons  went  to  the  Baptist  church,  the  squire  leaning 
on  his  gold-headed  cane  and  bowing  like  a  beloved 
king.  Robert's  horses  were  headed  for  Attica.  His 
cattle  had  been  purchased  by  a  dairy-man.  He 
wished  to  avoid  the  faces  of  their  new  owners. 
Creeping  up  into  the  burial  ground,  he  seated  him 
self  under  a  cherry  tree  and  held  his  head.  Ten 
thousand  devils  were  tearing  at  him.  He  clenched 
his  hands,  frowned  and  lined  his  face.  What  was 
the  use?  Why  resist  the  drift  of  the  tide?  How 
could  a  drowning  man  swim  against  the  force  of 
the  stars?  He  wished  he  believed  in  prayer. 

"This  is  hell,"  he  said,  "the  hell  of  failure  and 
wrecked  ideals.  But  there's  one  thing  no  auctioneer 
can  sell.  It  is  'What  ought  to  be,  can  be.'  That 
belongs  to  me." 


CHAPTER  V 

ORME'S  self-imposed  sentence  had  expired;  one 
whole  day  without  a  drink.  He  had  defied  temp 
tation.  His  will  had  not  been  destroyed.  It  had 
slept.  Now,  at  last,  awake,  refreshed,  it  took  its 
rightful  place  and  assumed  command  of  his  life. 
He  knew  habit  would  not  relax  its  grip  without 
further  resistance.  Perhaps  the  four  and  twenty 
hours  struggle  would  at  times  seem  futile;  but,  at 
least,  it  was  not  ignoble.  He  had  made  an  effort. 
He  had  battled  against  his  senses.  One  day  be 
longed  to  him. 

The  preceding  night  Orme  had  slept  under  a 
cherry  tree,  or  rather  he  had  suffered  and  dozed  and 
fought.  This  morning,  as  he  briskly  washed  his 
face  at  the  spring,  he  paused  and  ground  his  teeth. 
Why  did  those  sparrows  make  such  an  infernal 
noise?  Soon  he  realized  that  he,  not  the  sparrows 
discorded  with  this  lovely  dawn.  He  went  on  with 
his  bath.  His  mind  glowed  with  the  joy  of  brief 
self-conquest.  He  felt  capable  of  enormous  things. 
He  would  strangle  that  beast  within  him.  He  would 
lead  a  clean,  useful  existence.  Yet  while  he  men 
tally  re-created  his  future,  he  wavered.  He  won 
dered  if  his  was  more  than  the  optimism  of  the 
drunkard. 

46 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  47 

Now  a  new  kind  of  ambition  came  to  Robert. 
Like  most  men  deprived  by  inherited  fortune  of  the 
discipline  of  work,  he  had  always  looked  at  life 
through  distorted,  flattering  lens.  Two  days  pre 
viously  he  found  out  what  it  meant  to  be  poor.  For 
the  first  time  he  learned  that  the  big  demand  of  even 
obscure  little  Freedom  was  for  credit  at  the  bank. 
Alice  wanted  money.  Ira  Wherritt  pinched,  starved, 
cheated  for  it,  and  a  church  pew  made  usury  look 
religious.  Pat  Clancy  coined  into  money  the  tears 
of  women,  the  food  of  children,  the  blood  of  men. 
Since  this  was  the  universal  ambition,  one  every 
where  negotiable,  Robert  determined  to  have  money 
—money  for  Alice. 

With  all  haste  he  sprang  over  the  old  stone  wall, 
lightly  leaped  down  the  hill,  ran  across  the  road,  and 
up  the  steps  leading  into  the  large,  neglected,  tangled 
garden.  Here  he  paused.  He  was  confronted  by 
too  much  that  had  passed  from  the  spot.  He  had 
steeled  himself  against  appetite,  but  he  was  helpless 
against  throbbing  memories  which  made  the  garden 
seem  like  his  own  tomb.  He  was  glad  when  he 
came  within  sight  and  speech  of  Carter,  an  old  negro 
slave  whom  he  had  brought  back  with  him  from  the 
war.  Carter  had  not  deserted  him. 

"I  mos'  certainly  am  powahful  glad  to  see  you, 
Cap'in  Orme,"  said  the  colored  man.  "I  mos'  cer 
tainly  am.  I  been  busy  packin'  all  dese  heah  things. 
I  reckon  yesterday  was  de  grandest  auction  dey  ever 
had  in  dis  place." 

In  the  order  brought  by  Carter  out  of  the  upheaval 


48  ESTHER  DAMON 

of  books,  pictures,  and  bedding,  Orme  recognized 
faithful  service.  "It  was  good  of  you  to  remain, 
Carter.  I  knew  I  could  rely  on  you." 

Carter  was  one  great  grin.  "I  toted  dese  boxes 
up  here  on  my  back  yesterday,  shuah  I  did.  It's 
a-gwine  to  rain.  Things  get  spoiled  in  de  wet.  We 
kin  put  de  boxes  in  Mr.  Wherritt's  barn." 

"You're  right,  Carter,"  Orme  agreed.  "Every 
thing  must  be  stored  immediately,  but  there's  no 
room  in  Mr.  Wherritt's  barn.  As  soon  as  I  change 
my  clothes  I'll  go  down  to  the  village  and  find  a 
place." 

The  negro,  hammer  in  hand,  was  about  to  nail 
a  cover  on  a  box  of  pictures  when  Orme's  glance 
fell  on  the  original  portrait  of  Wesley.  Robert 
looked  at  the  strong,  inspiring  countenance.  He  re 
called  Mrs.  Damon,  and  the  supernatural  spirit  with 
which  she  had  invested  the  picture.  He  was  well 
aware  that  the  canvas  possessed  high  value.  In  his 
boyhood  it  had  been  exhibited  in  large  cities.  Squire 
Orme  guarded  it  as  the  treasure  of  the  household, 
and  declined  to  allow  it  to  fall  into  the  hands  of 
prowling  art  vandals.  Robert  himself  not  long  be 
fore  had  fatuously  stood  in  the  way  of  its  sale  to  a 
New  York  collector.  Now  it  came  to  him  that  the 
offer  of  the  antiquarian  might  enable  him  to  emerge 
from  his  difficulties  in  more  ways  than  one.  In 
addition  to  material  gain,  the  sale  brought  a  pros 
pect  of  a  breath  of  air  away  from  Freedom,  the 
limits  of  which  pressed  hard  upon  him.  Yes,  he 
must  get  away  from  the  village.  He  would  go  to-day. 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  49 

Carter  had  been  left  by  the  Ripon  bankers  in 
charge  of  the  place  until  the  land  could  be  leased 
or  sold,  and  presently  Orme  went  to  the  old  servant's 
room  to  change  his  clothing.  Clean  linen  and  outer 
garments,  not  saturated  with  whiskey,  made  him 
look  less  like  an  aging  Hamlet  who  had  been  drunk 
for  a  decade.  Hurrying  back  to  Carter  he  found 
the  negro  with  the  old  family  Bible  in  one  hand 
and  a  bill  of  currency  in  the  other.  Carter  was  star 
ing  open-mouthed  at  them. 

"Look  heah,  Cap'n!  I  dropped  de  Bible  and  dis 
money  fell  out.  Tears  it  come  straight  from  heaven." 

At  first  Orme  thought  this  Carter's  ruse  to  compel 
him  to  accept  some  of  his  savings,  but  he  saw  at  a 
glance  that  the  old  Bible  was  filled  with  family 
mementoes.  The  bill  was  very  old,  and  had  prob 
ably  been  placed  there  by  his  mother.  He  was  the 
modern  man,  quite  untainted  by  superstition,  but 
for  a  moment  he  seemed  to  hear  his  mother's  voice. 
With  that  gentle  woman's  blood  in  his  veins,  her 
memory  in  his  heart,  her  sacred  influence  on  his 
soul,  how  had  he  come  to  this  ?  She  seemed  to  plead 
with  him  to  go  on  with  his  effort.  So  shaken  was 
Orme  that  to  prevent  Carter  seeing  his  emotion  he 
bent  over  the  Bible.  He  pretended  to  be  interested 
in  the  family  names  inscribed  there  in  Latin  during 
the  seventeenth  century  in  England.  When  he 
remastered  himself  he  laid  down  the  volume,  say 
ing,  "Carter,  take  care  of  that  Bible.  It's  very 
interesting  and  precious." 

Orme  rolled  up  the  bill.    A  minute  before  it  had 


50  ESTHER  DAMON 

seemed  divinely  sent  by  his  mother.  Now  he  was 
tempted  to  destroy  it.  Money  was  only  the  means 
for  a  carousal  with  his  friends.  Why  not  the  beau 
tiful  unreality  of  drunkenness?  Dismay  crowded 
upon  him  as  his  frail  will  was  buffeted  about. 
Clearly  he  was  more  Robert  Orme  in  weakness  than 
in  strength.  Cunningly,  insidiously  did  his  desire 
for  drink  spur  him  to  lie  to  the  black  man. 

"I'm  going  to  New  York,  Carter,  to  sell  that 
Wesley  portrait.  When  I  come  back  I'll  build  a 
house  on  the  lot  across  the  way.  I  think  I'll  set  up 
a  select  school,  then  I'll  take  you  back,  Carter." 

"Yes,  sah."  Carter  listened  to  Orme's  rapid 
words,  bowed  in  his  best  plantation  manner,  and 
wondered  what  more  was  to  come. 

"And,  Carter,  I  wish  you'd  pack  me  enough 
clothing  for  a  week  and  leave  the  bag  at  Mrs. 
Brewster's." 

"Yes,  sah." 

"We'll  store  the  furniture  in  her  barn." 

"Yes,  sah." 

"You'll  find  me  at  her  house  within  an  hour, 
Carter,"  Orme  said  in  departure.  "I'll  leave  the 
picture  for  you  to  bring.  Be  sure  not  to  miss  me." 

"Yes,  sah." 

Again  the  subtle  vice  gripped  Robert.  His  new 
will  was  throttled  as  he  went  toward  the  village. 
The  words,  "I'm  a  drunkard,"  yesterday  so  effective 
a  warning,  now  no  longer  served  as  a  deterrent. 
His  new  controlling  formula,  "Whatever  ought  to 
be,  can  be,"  was  as  handwriting  on  water.  He 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  51 

would  give  himself  to  the  wine  god,  that  spirit  of 
fire  and  dew.  What  offered  more  sublimity  to  dull 
existence  ? 

Under  a  large  elm-tree  half-way  to  his  goal,  the 
drug-store,  he  encountered  the  grenadier-like  figure 
of  Mrs.  Brewster.  She  was  returning  from  her 
morning's  marketing.  So  feverish  was  Orme's  haste 
that  he  removed  his  hat  with  stinted  courtesy.  For 
an  instant  she  stood  inspecting  him. 

" Ain't  my  house  as  good  as  a  tavern,  Bobby?" 

"I  was  just  coming  to  see  you,"  he  answered. 

"No,  you  wasn't  neither,  Bobby,  but  come  right 
in  now." 

"As  soon  as  I  go  to  the  drug-store" — he  said, 
moving  forward. 

"No!"  'No'  was  the  widow's  favorite  word. 
"You  come  instanter  with  me.  Carry  my  market- 
basket."  Holding  him  by  the  arm  she  led  him 
through  the  garden  to  her  porch.  Only  the  holly 
hocks  and  the  morning  glories  and  Orme  knew  of 
the  heart  hidden  under  Aunty  Brewster's  militant 
manner. 

As  Robert  opened  the  green-screened  door  of  the 
sitting-room,  he  said,  "Indeed  I  was  coming,  Aunty. 
I  wanted  to  ask  your  advice." 

She  untied  her  bonnet  and  grunted.  "Oh,  ye 
did,  did  ye?"  She  squinted  at  him.  "Well,  my 
advice  to  you  is,  you'd  better  take  the  pledge.  Have 
ye  took  it,  Bob?" 

"Yes,  a  kind  of  pledge,  Aunty." 

"Well,  take  a  real  one  and  keep  away  from  that 


52  ESTHER  DAMON 

tippling  house."  Mrs.  Brewster  carried  her  bonnet 
into  the  bedroom.  ' '  Now,  what  do  you  want  to  eat  ?  " 

"Nothing,  thanks.  May  I  have  a  pot  of  coffee?" 
Blazing  as  he  was  with  alcoholic  energy,  he  won 
dered  why  he  did  not  break  out  of  the  door. 

"You  shall  eat,  Bobby,"  she  said,  placing  on  the 
table  before  him  mince  pie,  cakes,  and  cookies. 
"You  look  awful  piddlin'." 

"Really,  I  care  for  nothing  but  coffee  and  rolls," 
Robert  meekly  protested.  He  had  forgotten  that  to 
decline  food  from  Mrs.  Brewster's  kitchen  was 
sedition. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  anyway,  Bob?  I 
suppose  you  like  your  victuals  all  quiddled  up. 
You  used  to  like  my  cookin',"  she  retorted  as  if  she 
believed  the  worst  Freedom  was  saying  of  him. 
According  to  Mrs.  Brewster's  thinking,  not  to  eat 
pastry  for  breakfast,  was  incipient  depravity. 

"When  I  was  a  youngster  I  did  like  cookies." 

While  she  prepared  the  coffee,  Robert  heard  her 
sputter:  "Colleges  ruins  every  one  who  goes  to  'em. 
Ketch  me  near  'em.  Mr.  Brewster  was  the  best 
carpenter  in  Freedom.  His  head  wasn't  mussed  up 
with  learning.  He  worked  on  the  finest  buildings 
in  town."  Soon  she  emerged  from  the  kitchen 
carrying  a  great  pot  of  coffee  and  a  plate  of  rolls. 
"Are  you  too  tony  to  eat  these?" 

"They're  just  what  I  want."  Orme  placed  him 
self  at  the  table,  but  he  did  not  eat.  He  drank  cup 
after  cup  of  strong  coffee.  "May  I  store  our  fur 
niture  in  your  barn,  Aunty?"  he  asked. 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  53 

Her  reply  was  another  question,  "You  and  your 
wife  ain't  a-livin'  together,  be  ye?" 

"Not  that,  Aunty,"  Orme  replied  in  embarrass 
ment.  "Alice  isn't  feeling  very  well,  and  she's  stop 
ping  at  her  father's  house  until  I  get  back  from 
New  York." 

Mrs.  Brewster  smiled  skeptically.  "I  suppose  New 
York's  one  of  your  jokes." 

"No,  I'm  going  on  business  this  afternoon.  I 
take  the  two  o'clock  stage." 

The  widow  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  "You're 
going  to  New  York!"  She  took  a  drink  of  water. 
"Why,  Bob!  Why  don't  you  tell  me  you're  going  to 
Jerusalem?" 

Not  more  than  six  persons  in  Freedom  had 
travelled  so  far  as  New  York.  The  last  venture 
some  person  was  Dr.  Yates,  the  village  physician. 
A  prejudice  against  travel  had  existed  in  the  town 
ever  since  Jeremiah  Leak  was  killed  by  the  Ripon 
"Accommodation,"  ten  years  before.  Her  equilib 
rium  regained,  Mrs.  Brewster  continued:  "Well,  I 
suppose  it  will  do  you  good  to  get  away  from  this 
racket  for  a  spell.  It  will  be  a  change  if  only  from 
mutton  to  skunk."  Mitigating  circumstances  arose 
in  her  mind.  "I  don't  know  as  I  can  blame  any 
body  for  wanting  to  ride  all  day  in  the  stage  or  on 
the  cars,"  she  said.  "If  you  want  my  barn,  Bobby, 
you  can  have  it.  How  are  you  making  out?  Can't 
I  get  you  some  ham  and  eggs?"  On  his  declining, 
the  widow  conjectured:  "I  suppose  old  Wherritt 
won't  let  you  have  his  barn.  If  I  was  as  tight  as 


54  ESTHER  DAMON 

him — old  skinflint!  These  girls  nowadays  are 
trash.  Send  'em  to  a  city  school  and  give  them 
music  lessons,  and  that  finishes  'em.  Highty-tighty! 
Give  me  silk  and  velvet  or  I'll  go  home  to  pa.  I 
never  left  Brewster  even  after  he  broke  his  leg. 
Didn't  I  take  care  of  him  till  he  died?" 

"There  never  was  any  one  like  you,  Aunty." 

The  widow  pretended  to  disdain  compliments,  but 
a  pleased  smile  played  about  her  mouth.  "I  tell  you 
the  old  stock  in  Massachusetts  was  different.  Not 
a  shilling  for  you  or  the  barn,  Bob.  That  would  be 
a  nice  shine,  wouldn't  it?  I'd  be  as  bad  as  old 
Wherritt  to  take  money  from  you  after  all  the  milk 
and  fruit  and  groceries  you've  give  me  for  years. 
Keep  your  money,  you'll  need  it.  Have  some  more 
coffee." 

When  Mrs.  Brewster  went  into  the  kitchen  Robert 
heard  a  gentle  tap  on  the  screen  door.  There  stood 
Mrs.  Damon  and  her  daughter.  He  imagined  they 
had  come  to  pray  for  Aunty  Brewster,  who  as  a 
Universalist  was  considered  by  the  Methodists  as 
' 'lost"  as  the  Roman  Catholics.  Orme  opened  the 
door  and  admitted  the  women. 

"My  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Damon,  her  face  shining 
like  the  face  of  a  saint,  "we've  been  looking  for 
you.  You're  stronger  to-day,  I  see,  but  you're  still 
troubled.  You're  sad,  my  brother.  You're  in  dan 
ger.  You  have  need  of  higher  help." 

All  other  religions,  Robert  reflected,  might  be  dead 
superstition,  but  this  woman's  really  lived.  Her 
kindliness  was  a  beautiful  grace,  and  her  speech  es- 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  55 

caped  impertinence  because  of  her  deep,  quiet  con 
viction  that  she  was  under  divine  guidance.  "We 
have  all  prayed  for  you,"  Mrs.  Damon  continued. 
"My  husband,  my  daughter,  and  I  have  prayed  for 
you."  Esther,  who  towered  above  her  mother  as  she 
did  over  all  the  women  in  Freedom,  averted  her 
face,  but  Orme  recognized  her  as  a  big,  fine,  natural 
force.  "We  fasted  and  talked  with  God  about 
you,  Captain." 

Orme  was  exquisitely  conscious  of  every  phase  of 
the  girl's  beauty;  the  lines,  the  coloring,  the  wide 
range  of  expression.  Again  he  looked  at  Esther. 
Deep  in  her  transparent  skin  he  noticed  a  blush. 
He  hoped  she  would  speak.  He  wished  to  hear  the 
voice  of  the  woman  whose  dark  red  hair  contradicted 
her  grave,  long-lashed  eyes;  whose  vivid,  brilliant 
loveliness  protested  against  her  severe,  monastic 
apparel;  whose  entire  person,  flashing  on  him  like 
a  page  out  of  history  was  at  variance  with  little, 
crude,  dingy,  characterless  Freedom.  But  she  was 
silent.  In  the  appalling  conflict  of  yesterday  there 
had  been  manifest  to  Robert  no  sense  of  compan 
ionship;  but  it  touched  him  finely  that  he  had  not 
been  alone.  "  Perhaps,  Mrs.  Damon,"  he  answered, 
"although  I  didn't  realize  it,  you  helped  me.  You 
are  very  good,  and  you" — he  included  Esther  in  his 
expression  of  gratitude,  "to  lend  yourselves  to  the 
weak.  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  I  wasn't  worth  the  trouble." 

The  older  woman  shook  her  head,  and  her  sweet, 
veiled  smile  disclosed  to  him,  that,  in  her  youth 
before  she  had  begun  to  bear  on  her  shoulders  the 


56  ESTHER  DAMON 

heavy  cross  of  her  Redeemer,  she  must  have  been 
very  lovely.  "Don't  thank  me,  my  friend,"  she  re 
plied.  "Every  morning  I  ask  Jesus  to  let  me  live 
in  His  way.  Yesterday  His  voice  was  as  distinct 
as  mine  is  now:  'Fast  and  pray  for  Robert  Orme 
who  is  in  temptation."1  He  repressed  a  smile  at 
her  primitive  belief,  but  she  did  not  notice  it  and 
went  on.  "Something  tells  me  you  are  better  than 
you  were  day  before  yesterday." 

To  Orme,  Jesus  was  only  an  ideal  to  work  toward. 
He  had  never  known  subjectively  the  emotion  of  re 
ligion;  but  when  Mrs.  Damon  spoke,  there  was  no 
longer  contention  or  struggle  within.  His  spirit 
calmly  presided  over  his  body.  "Any  one  should 
be  better  for  God's  best  medicine,"  he  answered. 
"I'm  sure  it  is  kind  words." 

"And  you  are  not  going  to  that  wicked  tavern, 
are  you,  my  friend?"  the  minister's  wife  pleaded. 
The  girl  quickly  turned  her  eyes  toward  him. 
Robert  observed  that,  though  the  countenance  of 
Esther  Damon  was  capable  of  expressing  every 
thing,  as  yet  it  was  unawakened. 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Brewster  returned  to  the 
sitting-room  and  her  native  belligerence  burst  forth. 
Before  her  visitors  had  time  to  explain,  she  said, 
"No,  Mis'  Damon,  ye  can't  pray  for  me,  now  or 
never.  When  I  want  any  praying  done  I'll  do  it 
myself.  Who  are  ye,  anyway — Mrs.  Jehovah?" 

Esther  quietly  left  the  room  and  stood  on  the 
porch,  but  Mrs.  Damon  smiled  pityingly  at  the 
widow  like  one  whose  devoted  desire  was  to  illu- 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  57 

mine,  persuade,  and  take  possession  of  souls.  "I'm 
one  who  loves  you.  I  would  give  my  life  to  save 
you  from  desiring  temporal  things,  from  the  gold 
breast-pin,  the  gold  earrings  you  are  wearing,  to  save 
you  from  hell." 

For  years  the  widow  had  not  entered  a  house  of 
worship.  Mrs.  Damon's  unfaltering  efforts  to  guide 
Mrs.  Brewster  into  the  spiritual  kingdom  were  by 
the  village  thought  praiseworthy,  but  destined  to 
failure.  There  was  no  Universalist  church  in  the 
village,  but  the  widow  dearly  loved  to  fly  the  flag 
of  her  unpopular  creed. 

"Hell!"  she  scathingly  returned.  "Whoever  in 
vented  such  a  place  to  scare  fools  with  ?  Everybody 
is  going  to  be  saved." 

The  idea  of  "universal  redemption"  destroyed 
for  Mrs.  Damon  the  value  of  the  sacrifice  of  the 
Man  of  Sorrows;  but  practised  as  she  was  in  pa 
tience,  she  answered  gently:  "You  would  like  to 
think  there  is  no  hell.  I  see  it  right  here  before 
me.  It's  a  great  burning  lake.  God  needs  a  hell 
for  those  who  doubt  and  trample  on  His  name." 

"Don't  talk  to  me,  Mis'  Damon,"  said  the  widow, 
clenching  her  hands.  "I  guess  I  know  as  much 
about  the  Almighty  as  you  do,  if  you  are  a  minis 
ter's  wife.  Ministers!  Churches!  Humph!  You 
might  just  as  well  go  into  a  store  as  a  church,  if  you 
ain't  got  your  pocket-book  with  you." 

"Ah,  sister,"  chided  the  plaintive  voice  of  Mrs. 
Damon,  "how  you  misjudge  us.  Let  the  Holy 
Spirit  come  to  you  here." 


58  ESTHER  DAMON 

"There's  the  door.  Get  out."  Then  Mrs.  Brews- 
ter  subjoined  this  annihilating  passage  of  scripture, 
"'Pray  not  as  the  hypocrites,  on  the  corners  of  the 
street  to  be  seen  of  men.'" 

"'Wherever  one  can  lift  up  holy  hands,  there  let 
him  pray,' "  promptly  quoted  Mrs.  Damon. 

The  visitor  kneeled  down  before  the  door  and 
Mrs.  Brewster  raged,  "You'd  better  go  home  and 
hoe  your  own  house  and  make  a  decent  dress  for 
yourself.  Your  other  girls  died  because  you  was 
so  busy  praying  you  couldn't  take  care  of  them,  and 
this  one  looks  like  a  beggar." 

Indeed,  not  unlike  a  superb  pagan  queen  who  had 
laid  aside  her  fantastic  head-dress,  her  strange  blaz 
ing  jewels,  her  robes,  to  appear  in  the  guise  of  a 
beggar,  Esther  Damon  stood  within  range  of  Orme's 
vision.  He  felt  certain  the  girl  had  heard  though 
she  had  moved  away  from  the  house.  Quickly  he 
raised  his  eyes  in  protest  from  the  paper  he  was 
pretending  to  read.  "Aunty  Brewster,  perhaps  Mrs. 
Damon  doesn't  understand  this  is  just  your  man 
ner  of  speaking.  What  harm  will  it  do  to  let  her 
pray?" 

"Now  you  keep  still,  Bobby,"  commanded  Mrs. 
Brewster.  "  Much  you  know  about  praying.  These 
folks  can't  come  around  here  acting  as  if  I'm  as 
low  as  the  Irish  and  giving  themselves  sanctimoni 
ous  airs.  I  won't  have  a  blessed  Methodist  near 
me."  Then  turning  to  Mrs.  Damon,  who  was  some 
what  bewildered  by  the  denunciation,  the  widow  re 
marked:  "You  needn't  bother  any  more  about  me 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  59 

or  my  soul.  You've  spoke  your  piece.  If  there  is 
any  heaven  I  guess  I've  got  as  good  a  chance  to 
see  it  as  you  have." 

Mrs.  Damon's  dignity  could  not  be  impaired 
by  ridicule.  She  rose  from  her  knees  with  com 
posure.  Whatever  she  uttered  was  transfigured  by 
the  sweetness  of  her  voice,  by  the  faith  in  her  eyes. 
"I  do  want  to  meet  you  there,  sister,  to  see  you 
walk  the  golden  streets  with  a  crown  of  stars  in 
your  hair." 

Mrs.  Brewster  was  moved  to  sardonic  mirth. 
"  What  do  you  want  gold  streets  for  ?  I  thought  gold 
was  such  a  terrible  sin.  I  guess  Methodists  like 
gold  as  well  as  any  one,  only  you're  all  poor  as  Job's 
turkey." 

Mrs.  Damon  moved  slowly  away  to  join  her 
daughter  who  walked  on  ahead,  dreaming  her  way 
through  worlds  far  from  the  ken  of  Freedom. 

"Don't  I  have  a  siege  with  folks  who  won't  mind 
their  own  p's  and  q's?"  Mrs.  Brewster  asked  of 
Orme.  "Them  Methodists  are  all  crazy." 

"I  dare  say  that  is  exactly  what  Thessaly,  Greece, 
Rome  said  of  Paul." 

Carter  at  this  moment  appeared  carrying  Orme's 
valise  and,  carefully  wrapped  in  paper,  the  Wesley 
portrait.  After  the  negro  had  gone  and  Mrs.  Brews 
ter  busied  herself  at  the  loom  which  occupied  a  large 
space  in  the  sitting-room,  Orme  still  sat  at  the  table 
drinking  coffee.  It  steadied  his  nerves  and  was  an 
excellent  substitute  for  whiskey.  His  mind  reverted 
to  the  wife  and  daughter  of  Elder  Damon.  How 


60  ESTHER  DAMON 

pleased  they  would  be  with  the  portrait  of  Wesley. 
To  no  one  would  it  mean  more — and  he  had  planned 
to  sell  it!  Life  had  been  too  easy  for  Robert — with 
wealth  and  honor  as  an  inheritance.  Bankrupt  as 
he  was,  in  the  joy  of  doing  something  for  Mrs. 
Damon  and  Esther,  he  forgot  that  he  was  giving 
away  his  future.  He  rose  to  go  to  the  parsonage. 

"Well,  Bobby,  are  you  dead  set  on  kiting  off  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth?" 

"After  I  take  this  picture  over  to  Mrs.  Damon." 
"What!    You  ain't  a-going  into  that  crazy  wom 
an's  house?"     Mrs.  Brewster  raised  her  spectacles 
and  allowed  them  to  rest  on  her  forehead,  as  she 
always  did  when  astounded. 

"Why  not?     They've  been  very  good  to  me." 
"  Good !   Making  a  nuisance  of  themselves !  They'll 
think  you  want  to  jine  the  Methodist  church." 

But  Orme  was  already  out  of  the  door,  package 
under  his  arm,  making  his  way  toward  the  corner, 
mind-drunk  with  a  new  idea.  He  did  not  hear. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ELDER  HEZEKIAH  DAMON  lived  in  a  humble  little 
dwelling  by  the  Methodist  church.  When  erected, 
both  the  parsonage  and  the  spireless  house  of  wor 
ship  were  white;  but  the  paint,  peeling,  left  them  a 
weather-worn  drab.  In  the  small  garden  through 
which  Orme  passed,  no  flowers  bloomed;  the  grass 
was  unmown.  In  those  primitive  days  of  bottom 
less  hell  any  striving  toward  material  beauty  on  the 
part  of  a  Methodist  minister  might  have  occasioned 
suspicion  that  he,  in  his  heart  at  least,  accepted  the 
values  of  the  worldly  Baptists  and  Congregational- 
ists,  or  even  of  those  idolaters,  the  Roman  Catholics. 

There  was  a  silence  after  Orme  rapped  for  admit 
tance  to  the  parsonage.  He  looked  round.  Per 
haps  Mrs.  Damon  had  not  yet  returned.  No,  there 
was  a  stir  within.  Esther  Damon  opened  the  door. 
They  stood  staring  at  each  other  for  a  long  second. 
In  that  stare  it  came  over  him  how  dreadful  a  per 
son  she  thought  him.  He  broke  the  spell  of  con 
fusion  by  asking,  "May  I  see  Mrs.  Damon?" 

"Mother  has  gone  to  pray  for  the  Catholic  priest," 
Esther  explained  in  a  silky  contralto  voice.  Father 
O'Darrell  was  a  friend  of  Robert's.  He  smiled  as  he 
thought  of  Mrs.  Damon  struggling  with  the  priest. 
After  a  pause  the  girl  went  on,  "Won't  you  come  in? 

61 


62  ESTHER  DAMON 

I  don't  think  mother  will  be  gone  long.  Father 
O'Darrell  always  gets  so  cross  when  she  tries  to 
convert  him.  He  thinks  he's  saved  already,"  she 
said  as  she  gave  Orme  a  chair.  "He  doesn't  know 
any  better,  poor  man !  Just  think,  he  smokes  cigars." 

Robert  was  one  of  those  meditative  persons  who 
see  nothing  or  everything.  To-day  he  noticed  every 
thing:  the  rag  carpet;  the  cane-seated  chairs;  the 
gray  paper  shades  at  the  windows;  the  centre 
table  holding  the  law-givers  of  the  family — a  large 
Bible  and  a  coverless,  bethumbed  edition  of  Para 
dise  Lost.  An  engraving  of  George  Washington 
and  family  was  the  only  profane  decoration  on  the 
walls,  hung  with  tablets  of  prayers,  a  leaf  of  which 
was  turned  back  daily.  What  a  strange,  grim  set 
ting,  he  thought,  for  this  girl  with  the  glowing  hair, 
and  the  intense,  pale  face.  She  made  him  think  of 
purple,  cloth  of  gold,  emeralds,  and  diadems.  Seeing 
her  was  like  finding  a  great  surprise  of  nature.  He 
was  glad  Mrs.  Damon  was  absent.  He  wished  to 
hear  Esther  talk. 

"  And  you  didn't  go  with  Mrs.  Damon  to  help  con 
vert  Father  O'Darrell?" 

"No,  mother  said  I  was  too  bad." 

"Bad?"  He  wondered  what  her  definition  of 
badness  might  be.  "Not  very  bad,  I  fancy?" 

"Terribly!"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  gravely. 
"Lucy  Yates — you  know  her,  don't  you?" 

"Our  fathers  were  like  brothers." 

"Lucy  and  I  have  always  been  seat-mates  at 
school.  She  has  such  a  good  time  and  goes  every- 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  63 

where.  Yesterday  she  took  me  to  see  '  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin'  without  mother's  knowing.  It  was  played  in 
a  tent  near  the  school-house." 

"Did  you  find  it  interesting?" 

All  her  repose  was  gone.  Robert  had  never  seen 
a  face  so  responsive  to  the  vibrations  of  thought. 
She  clasped  her  hands  as  she  leaned  forward:  "It 
was  heavenly.  Where  do  such  beautiful  people  come 
from?"  How  inexperienced  she  was,  he  thought, 
when  she  could  idealize  those  tawdry,  wandering 
players.  "But,"  she  added,  "it  was  so  wicked." 

"Why  wicked?" 

"It  was  almost  a  theatre,  and  theatres  are  sin," 
she  answered. 

"Are  they?" 

"  Don't  you  know  it  either  ?    Of  course  you  don't." 

Determined  to  anticipate  her  thought,  he  replied, 
"No,  I'm  the  worst  man  in  Freedom." 

"Mother  says  you're  not  so  bad  as  the  Clancys  or 
Father  O'Darrell.  The  Clancys  sell  whiskey  and 
Father  O'Darrell  worships  idols." 

"That's  something,  at  least,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 

"I  shouldn't  say  anything  about  other  people 
being  wicked  because  I  don't  see  anything  wrong  in 
1  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.'  I  told  mother  so  just  now. 
She  won't  let  me  see  Lucy  for  a  week  ...  I  must 
stay  in  my  room  all  that  time." 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  your  mother's  permission  to 
go?" 

"What  was  the  use?"  she  answered  wistfully. 
"She'd  never  let  me  go;  but  I'm  glad  I  went.  I'd 


64  ESTHER  DAMON 

starve  for  weeks  to  see  'Uncle  Tom's  Cabin'  over 
again.  I  never  was  so  happy  in  my  life." 

"And  such  innocent  happiness." 

Esther  shook  her  head.  "Mother  doesn't  call  it 
innocent.  I  know  I  must  be  terrible.  I  hate  it  up 
in  my  room.  It's  so  dark  and  dreary.  I  came  down 
just  to  see  who  was  at  the  door.  It's  like  see 
ing  the  stage  come  in  or  opening  a  package  to 
see  what  is  in  it."  She  glanced  at  the  Wesley  por 
trait  he  had  laid  down. 

While  removing  the  paper  from  the  picture,  Orme 
watched  Esther's  face.  He  wondered  what  future 
was  coming  to  this  enkindling  girl.  Loving  her 
would  make  a  saint  or  a  devil,  a  poet  or  a  beast 
out  of  some  man,  according  to  the  original  warp  of 
his  fibre.  "I'm  going  away  from  Freedom,"  he 
said,  as  he  held  the  portrait  before  her.  "I  brought 
this  picture  for  your  mother.  I  hope  she  will  ac 
cept  it." 

Esther  looked  at  the  canvas  in  silence.  Finally 
she  said,  "Oh,  it's  Wesley!"  The  corners  of  her 
mouth  drooped.  "The  frame  is  very  nice."  Her 
tongue  did  not  readily  respond  to  conventional  hy 
pocrisy,  but  she  finally  added,  "Mother  will  be 
pleased." 

Her  disappointment  revealed  to  Orme  the  truth; 
he  had  brought  the  picture  not  for  the  mother,  but 
for  the  daughter.  Esther  had  seen  him  at  his  worst. 
He  wished  her  to  see  him  at  his  best.  "Don't  you 
like  the  portrait?"  he  inquired,  the  pleasure  of  giv 
ing  gone. 


THE   WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  65 

"I  hoped  it  was  something  beautiful,"  she  ex 
plained  reluctantly.  "I  saw  a  corner  of  the  frame." 
Then,  in  a  gust  of  passionate  thought  she  burst  out, 
"I  can't  stand  the  sight  or  name  of  John  Wesley- 
She  broke  off  in  alarm,  and  covered  her  lips  with  her 
fingers.  Soon  she  went  on:  "I  never  said  it  to  any 
one  but  Lucy  Yates  before.  She  promised  not  to 
tell.  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  say  it  to  you,  but 
Wesley  keeps  me  away  from  'Uncle  Tom's  Cabin' 
and  everything  I  like.  Father's  always  preaching 
about  him,  but  I  believe  he  was  hateful.  I  read  in 
a  book  at  Dr.  Yates'  that  Wesley  couldn't  even  live 
with  his  wife." 

How  Esther  Damon  could  judge !  Wesley's  weak 
ness  came  to  Orme  as  his  own  indictment.  Neither 
he  nor  she  in  their  earnest  interest  in  what  she  was 
saying  realized  that  Mrs.  Damon,  standing  in  the 
open  doorway,  had  heard  Esther's  words. 

"Daughter,  why  are  you  down  here?  Go  up 
stairs  to  your  room,"  came  the  mother's  low  and 
insistent  voice. 

Revolt  flared  in  Esther's  eyes;  Mrs.  Damon 
quelled  it  with  a  word,  "Daughter,  dear!" 

The  girl  went  toward  the  narrow  stairway  and 
closed  the  door  with  a  bang  that  shook  the  house. 
With  every  step  as  she  mounted  the  uncarpeted 
stairs,  she  seemed  to  grind  to  powder  Wesley's  bones. 
Mrs.  Damon  looked  at  Orme  in  alarm.  For  the 
first  time  she  realized  that  a  new  full-grown  individual 
was  in  her  home,  one  who  could  form  her  own 
opinion  and  rebel.  She  promptly  met  the  situation 


66  ESTHER  DAMON 

by  going  to  the  door:  "Esther,  come  downstairs 
immediately." 

"Yes,  mother."  The  girl  returned  meek  as  a 
saint. 

"You  astonish  me,  daughter.  Say  you're  sorry, 
and  apologize  to  Mr.  Orme  for  your  unladylike  be 
havior." 

If  Esther  had  a  capacity  for  wounding,  she  could 
beautifully  atone.  Placing  her  arm  affectionately 
round  Mrs.  Damon's  neck  she  pleaded,  "Mother, 
dear,  forgive  me.  I  don't  know  why  I'm  so  bad." 
When  Mrs.  Damon  kissed  her,  the  girl  turned  to 
Robert,  "I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Orme." 

"That  is  nothing,"  he  said.  "I  like  people  as 
much  for  their  imperfections  as  for  their  perfections 
.  .  .  sometimes  more.  But  I  hope  you  won't  mis 
judge  Wesley.  He  was  a  great  man  because  he 
protested  at  a  time  when  protesting  was  hard.  He 
lived  and  suffered  for  an  ideal!" 

A  wonderful  light  came  into  Esther's  eyes.  "It 
must  be  splendid  to  live  and  suffer  for  an  ideal,"  she 
answered.  Then  she  tiptoed  softly  upstairs. 

"My  daughter  isn't  usually  disobedient,  Mr. 
Orme,"  was  Mrs.  Damon's  apology.  "When  she 
was  a  child  she  did  some  strange  things.  One  day 
when  she  was  seven  she  disappeared.  Night  came 
and  we  thought  she  was  dead.  At  twelve  o'clock  we 
found  her  at  the  lake,  asleep.  She  told  us  she  had 
started  to  find  the  world's  end.  Now  she  is  grown 
I'm  afraid  some  of  her  pleasure-loving  friends  sug 
gest  adventures  to  Esther.  Yesterday  Lucy  Yates 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  67 

took  her  to  see  'Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.'  I  don't  like 
to  break  off  the  girls'  friendship,  but  Esther  must  be 
obedient.  I'm  keeping  her  in  her  room  for  a  week." 

"You're  not  afraid  to  punish  a  girl  like  your 
daughter  so  severely?" 

Mrs.  Damon  looked  at  Orme  blankly:  "Afraid  of 
what?" 

"A  reaction.    Nature,  you  know " 

"Nature!"  Mrs.  Damon  smiled  in  pity.  "God 
is  nature.  How  can  I  be  afraid  so  long  as  God 
has  her  in  His  care?"  Her  eyes  fell  upon  the  por 
trait  of  Wesley.  She  bent  over  it,  scanning  each 
feature  with  love.  Raising  her  head,  she  smiled  in 
ecstasy.  "Isn't  it  beautiful?  You  brought  it  for  me 
to  see  once  more?" 

"Yes,  I'm  going  away  from  Freedom  for  an  in 
definite  stay— 

"And  you'd  like  me  to  take  care  of  the  picture," 
she  interrupted  eagerly. 

"I'd  like  to  give  you  the  portrait  as  a  memento  of 
your  kindness  to  me." 

Tears  stood  in  Mrs.  Damon's  eyes.  Trembling, 
she  seized  his  hand  and  said,  "How  can  you  doubt 
our  Heavenly  Father,  Mr.  Orme,  when  he  inspires 
you  to  such  kindness  ?  How  wonderful  that  I  should 
have  this  blessing."  Again  she  bent  over  the  canvas. 
"Where  shall  I  hang  it?"  She  hurriedly  opened  the 
door  leading  into  the  parlor  and  Orme  followed  her 
into  the  room. 

Robert  was  surprised  by  an  unexpected  note  of 
worldliness  in  the  apartment.  The  mahogany  fur- 


68  ESTHER  DAMON 

niture  was  of  a  solid,  pleasing  mould.  It  had  been 
inherited  by  Mrs.  Damon  from  her  mother,  but  she 
still  questioned  her  right  to  its  possession.  Con 
cerning  this  self-indulgence  she  passed  many  hours 
in  communion  with  her  Maker.  Was  not  this  a 
covert  concession  to  godlessness? 

"I'll  place  Wesley's  portrait  there,"  she  said,  in 
dicating  a  side  of  the  room  where  hung  a  card 
board  motto,  "God  Bless  Our  Home,"  worked  in 
crewels.  "My  husband  will  be  so  happy.  He  is 
preaching  in  Attica  to-day."  Then  she  turned  to 
Robert  and  questioned,  "Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  take 
the  picture,  Mr.  Orme?  Are  you  quite  sure  you 
will  not  keep  it?" 

"It  belongs  here.  I  shall  like  to  think  it  has  found 
its  place  at  last."  As  he  spoke,  he  noticed  several 
oblong  pieces  of  cardboard  on  the  marble-top  table. 
Taking  one  up,  he  asked,  "What  are  these?" 

"Some  of  my  child's  work."  And  such  work — 
odd  bits  of  bright  paper  skilfully  glued  to  card 
board  gave  the  effect  of  weird,  tropical  landscape 
painted  by  one  with  a  sense  of  color,  but  without 
sense  of  form. 

"They're  beautiful,"  Orme  said,  holding  them  at 
a  distance.  "How  much  they  suggest.  What  im 
agination!" 

"Her  father  and  I  thought  them  rather  odd  and 
pretty,  and  so  I  kept  them.  Esther  can  do  anything 
with  her  hands.  We're  very  poor.  I've  nothing 
else  to  offer  you.  If  you  care  for  such  a  trifle  I'd 
like  you  to  take  one  of  those  pictures." 


THE  WORST  MAN  IN  TOWN  69 

Never  had  a  gift  so  pleased  Orme.  He  chose  a 
picture  and  placed  it  in  his  pocket  as  if  it  were  a 
masterpiece.  Presently  he  took  leave  of  Mrs.  Da 
mon.  Once  out  of  the  front  door  he  raised  his  eyes 
to  the  upper  story.  Like  a  beautiful  young  captive, 
leaning  against  the  small-paned  window,  there  stood 
Esther  Damon.  When  she  saw  him  she  tapped  on 
the  glass  and  gesticulated  furiously.  He  made  out 
that  he  should  look  downward.  At  his  feet  fluttered 
a  piece  of  paper  which  read: 

Will  you  please  say  to  Lucy  I  told  mother  about  "  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin,"  and  that  I  mayn't  see  her  for  a  week?  Ask 
Lucy  to  pass  here  every  day,  and  she'll  find  a  note  on  the 
grass  in  front  of  the  house.  Tell  her  I  adore  her  always. 
Thank  you. 

ESTHER  DAMON. 

P.  S.     I  don't  think  you  are  very  wicked. — E.  D. 

Orme  read  and  re-read  the  note.  He  studied  the 
eager,  reckless  handwriting.  Poor  girl,  locked  up  in 
that  garret.  Of  course  he  would  take  the  message 
to  Lucy.  He  read  the  postscript  aloud.  What 
pleasure  there  was  in  helping  others,  he  thought. 
Then  his  intellectual  honesty  caused  him  to  stop 
short.  How  sweet  it  was  to  serve  Esther  Damon! 
In  wild  confused  yearning  he  longed  for  youth, 
decency,  and  liberty;  but  this  longing  was  a  new 
abyss  in  himself.  "Good  God,"  he  said,  "I'm  glad 
I'm  going.  I'm  a  new  kind  of  fool." 


BOOK  TWO 
ESTHER  DAMON 


Strange  the  world  about  me  lies, 
Never  yet  familiar  grown, 
Still  disturbs  me  with  surprise, 
Haunts  me  like  a  face  half  known. 

In  this  world  of  starry  dome, 
Floored  with  gem-like  plains  and  seas, 
Shall  I  never  feel  at  home, 
Never  wholly  be  at  ease? 

On  from  room  to  room  I  stray, 
Yet  my  host  can  ne'er  espy, 
And  I  know  not  to  this  day 
Whether  guest  or  captive  I. 

So  between  the  starry  dome, 

And  the  floor  of  plains  and  seas, 

I  have  never  felt  at  home, 

Never  wholly  felt  at  ease. — WILLIAM  WATSON. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  forum  of  Freedom  was  the  Four  Corners. 
Here  the  opinions  of  Horace  Greeley  were  read  aloud 
and  discussed.  Here  the  reputations  of  the  local 
clergy  were  established  or  overthrown.  Here  inter 
national  questions  were  solved.  Ira  Wherritt,  Eben- 
ezer  Hood,  and  Job  Spear,  the  merchant  princes  of 
Freedom,  were  also  its  philosophers.  They  dom 
inated  the  village,  politically,  financially,  and  theo 
logically.  The  philosophers  were  confounded  by 
the  disappearance  of  Robert  Orme.  Twelve  months 
had  passed  since  they  saw  him  go  away  in  the  stage 
coach  to  Ripon.  Since  that  time,  the  very  day, 
they  recalled,  Enoch  Hood's  horse  died  of  the  colic, 
no  word  had  come  from  him.  That  his  absence 
still  remained  a  mystery  discredited  the  Four  Cor 
ners  as  the  source  of  absolute  knowledge.  Who  in 
the  future  would  accept  their  opinion  on  the  weather, 
the  crops,  the  president,  and  God?  They  plunged 
about  desperately  and  again  questioned  the  stage 
driver,  who  seemed  closest  to  the  solution  of  the 
mystery. 

For  the  hundredth  time  he  repeated  his  story. 
He  had  driven  the  passenger  to  Ripon  where  Orme 
purchased  a  ticket,  the  railway  agent  said,  for  New 
York.  From  that  moment  speculation  wandered 

73 


74  ESTHER  DAMON 

and  lost  itself  in  uncertainty ;  but  the  philosophers  of 
the  Four  Corners  couldn't  afford  uncertainty.  Be 
sides,  the  bankruptcy  and  separation  of  the  Ormes 
had  given  them  a  taste  for  the  sensational.  They 
supplied  a  melodramatic  climax  to  the  missing  man's 
life;  Robert  Orme  had  drunk  himself  to  death  and 
his  body  would  be  found  in  the  East  River. 

No  one  doubted  this  inspired  information.  Alice 
questioned  whether  she  should  wear  mourning  for 
such  a  husband.  Her  old  aunt  said  that  in  her  time 
the  dead  were  respected.  Alice's  more  modern  school 
friends  reminded  her  that  black  is  unbecoming  and 
the  wearing  of  it  a  waste  of  time.  They  wondered 
whom  she  would  marry  for  a  second  husband.  She 
bought  several  new  dresses  in  Buffalo.  All  thought 
it  best  that  Robert  had  died  in  New  York  instead  of 
living  further  to  disgrace  his  family  in  Freedom.  The 
Methodist  church  offered  prayers  for  him,  and  several 
grateful  villagers  recounted  his  acts  of  kindness. 

After  Freedom  had  solemnly  buried  Robert  the 
widow  Brewster  one  morning  appeared  in  the  post- 
office.  The  pale,  tenor-voiced  clerk  gave  her  the 
mail,  with  this  astonishing  information,  "Your  postal 
card  is  from  Bob  Orme." 

Mrs.  Brewster's  joy  overflowed  into  a  cackling 
laugh.  "I  told  'em  so,"  she  said,  looking  at  the 
card  with  the  wonder  of  an  inhabitant  of  Mars. 
Holding  it  close  to  her  eyes,  she  read,  "New  York 
City!"  "Dear  me  suz!  It's  the  first  time  I  ever  had 
a  postal  card  from  New  York  City.  See,"  she  said 
to  the  clerk,  indicating  the  post-mark,  "it's  printed 


ESTHER  DAMON  75 

right  in  front — New  York.  .  .  .  Why,  they've  left 
off  the  city,  but,"  she  questioned  a  little  anxiously, 
"it  means  New  York  City,  don't  it?"  Being  as 
sured  of  the  correctness  of  her  surmise,  she  read 
aloud  that  all  loiterers  in  the  drug-store  might  hear: 
"Shall  be  home  Tuesday  evening,  Robert  Orme." 
"Coming  home!"  she  went  on  to  the  clerk.  "Ain't 
he  a  nice  boy  to  write  me  ?  He  sent  me  postal  cards 
from  Washington  and  Philadelphia  when  he  went 
to  the  war." 

Mrs.  Brewster's  abrupt  resurrection  of  Robert 
Orme  was  followed  by  the  sudden,  smiling  con 
sciousness  that  her  cooking  and  weaving  no  longer 
pressed  and  that  it  was  vastly  important  she  should 
buy  at  Wherritt's  a  pound  of  tea  she  did  not  need. 
When  she  exhibited  the  post-card  to  the  store 
keeper  the  old  man  changed  his  spectacles  to  read 
the  message.  "Waal,"  he  declared  in  astonish 
ment,  "I  thought  it  was  good  riddance  to  bad  rub 
bish.  Who'd  ever  suppose  he'd  come  back  to  face 
Freedom?  I  guess  he's  got  the  cheek  if  he  don't 
get  drunk  and  fall  off  the  cars." 

There  was  more  than  usual  of  Freedom  to  face 
this  evening  when  the  stage-coach,  making  an  in 
effectual  effort  to  dash  like  a  Roman  chariot  up  to 
"Hood's  Merchandise  Store.  Established  in  1820," 
as  the  sign  testified,  at  last  gave  up  and  candidly 
lumbered  its  way  into  the  Four  Corners.  For  the 
second  time  in  the  day  many  irreproachable  females 
had  left  their  sewing  and  crocheting  to  appear  in 
the  commercial  centre.  This  sort  of  indiscretion 


76  ESTHER  DAMON 

was  perilous  to  reputation.  But  here,  with  the 
frivolous,  gad-about  creatures  of  the  village,  they 
were  assembled  to  witness  the  arrival  of  the  public 
conveyance  from  Ripon. 

The  stage  disgorged  two  occupants.  The  first  to 
alight  was  an  over-fed  travelling  salesman  who, 
luggage  in  hand,  unmindful  that  there  was  anything 
unusual  in  the  evening  event,  promptly  waddled  to 
the  Ivy  Green.  Orme  did  not  linger.  He  gave 
Freedom  a  surprise.  There  was  no  stumbling  from 
the  dusty  vehicle.  He  gained  the  ground  with  sure, 
firm  step.  Clear-eyed,  skin  bronzed  and  firm,  he 
walked  up  the  main  street  toward  the  Wherritt 
home  with  something  of  his  old  glowing  joy  in  his 
strength.  The  townspeople  to  whom  he  nodded 
thought  it  strange  he  did  not  appear  like  a  beggar. 

Job  Spear  stopped  counting  eggs  and  said  to  the 
clerk,  "Got  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  ain't  he?" 

"Looks  so.  Wonder  where  so  much  money  comes 
from?" 

The  answer  was  poisoned  with  suspicion.  "  Money 
in  New  York  must  drop  off  trees  as  apples  do  in 
Freedom." 

During  their  separation  of  a  year  Orme  had  re- 
idealized  Alice.  Now  he  hastened  to  her  like  a 
young  lover.  He  would  tell  her  of  his  new  hopes, 
his  new  plans,  the  new  clean  life  he  had  to  offer 
her.  He  hoped  she  would  sympathize  with  his 
struggles,  share  his  joy  in  self-mastery.  At  a  dis 
tance  he  could  see  her  in  a  white  muslin  gown,  sit 
ting  on  the  formal  Wherritt  porch.  The  sight  of 


ESTHER  DAMON  77 

her  touched  him  tenderly.  There  should  be  no 
more  bitter  years  in  their  lives. 

With  determined  mien  he  passed  through  the  gate 
and  approached  the  house.  Alice  was  more  charm 
ing  than  when  he  had  left  Freedom.  She  had  the 
loveliness  of  the  woman  who  desires  to  attract. 
But  it  was  not  possible  to  him  to  understand  from 
her  falling  countenance,  as  her  eyes  met  his,  that 
the  restored  grace  was  not  for  him.  Nor  could  he 
know  that  she  had  expected  never  to  see  him  again. 
Something  there  was  in  her  appearance,  something 
he  could  not  analyze,  that  pained  and  disconcerted 
him,  something  that  made  the  few  steps  between 
them  difficult  to  traverse.  He  hoped  his  presence 
would  not  bring  back  to  her  their  unhappy  years. 
Perturbed  as  he  was,  he  felt  little  surprise  when  she 
addressed  him  as  if  he  were  an  intrusive  peddler. 
"Oh,  you've  come  back." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I'm  here."  He  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  valise  which  rested  on  the  steps. 
In  endeavoring  to  make  the  simplest  statement  to 
his  wife,  he  trembled  before  her  judgment  to  a  de 
gree  that  made  him  realize  the  exorbitant  cost  of 
the  past  decade.  "There  are  many  things  we  must 
say  to  each  other,  Alice.  Mayn't  we  go  into  the 
house?" 

Her  answer  took  on  the  character  of  an  appeal 
to  Freedom  as  a  protecting  witness:  "We  can  say 
all  we  have  to  say  out  here." 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  still  standing.  "I  don't 
blame  you,  Alice,  for  being  angry  with  me  for  com- 


78  ESTHER  DAMON 

ing  here  that  last  horrible  day.  It  was  inexcusable. 
...  I  think  I  must  have  been  mad.  ...  I  hope 
you  won't  find  it  too  hard  to  forgive  me." 

"There  is  nothing  to  apologize  for,"  she  answered 
with  weary  cynicism.  "What  you  did  was  not  un 
usual  for  you." 

"I  never  behaved  quite  so  badly  before,  but  for 
give  me  for  that  and  all  my  life — the  humiliations 
and  griefs  I  caused  you." 

"Oh,  I  forgive  you,"  she  answered  perfunctorily. 

"Don't  be  impatient  with  me,"  he  pleaded. 

"Impatient!  Do  you  think  I'm  a  woman  or  an 
angel,  Robert?  I'm  just  a  woman,  and  I've  heard 
the  same  thing  every  two  months  for  I  don't  know 
how  many  years." 

"You've  heard  the  words,  Alice — never  the  spirit 
of  them.  The  words  are  threadbare,  I  realize,  but 
I  don't  know  any  others.  Perhaps  I've  forfeited 
all  right  to  consideration,  but  if  you  only  knew  what 
I  have  gone  through  you'd  understand  I  mean  what 
I  ask.  I'll  tell  you  if  you  care  to  hear.  Each  day 
was  a  struggle,  but  I  won  every  time.  I  said  I 
wouldn't  come  back  till  I  proved  you  might  believe 
in  me.  You  may.  When  I  went  away  I  got  off 
the  train  near  Albany  and  went  out  into  the  fields 
and  sweated  the  poison  out  of  me.  In  the  city  I 
worked  as  a  carpenter  and  cabinet  maker.  I  learned 
so  much,  Alice.  I  had  looked  all  my  life  for  phil 
osophy  to  save  me.  I  didn't  know  it  was  work  I 
needed.  Now  I  don't  want  whiskey.  I've  found  a 
real  religion,  work.  And  I'm  going  to  build  you  a 


ESTHER  DAMON  79 

house.  Come  over  to  Aunty  Brewster's  and  live  till 
it's  finished." 

Her  interest  slowly  revived.  "Is  that  house  an 
other  of  your  dreams?" 

"No,  it's  reality,  Alice.  I've  made  some  money 
and  in  building  I'm  going  back  to  first  principles. 
The  first  settlers  in  Freedom  hewed  their  houses  out 
of  the  forest.  It  was  splendid.  I'll  do  the  same." 
He  glowed  as  he  promised.  "We'll  have  a  log  house 
on  that  lot  across  from  the  old  place.  There'll  be 
three  or  four  nice  rooms,  one  with  a  big  fireplace. 
And  I'll  do  it  all  myself.  We'll  imagine  we're 
pioneers." 

Her  interest  was  now  extinct.  "I  was  always 
glad,  Robert,  I  wasn't  a  pioneer.  I  like  things 
finished." 

But  his  enthusiasm  expanded  into  words  which 
even  her  manner  failed  to  check:  "Ours  won't  be 
an  ordinary  log  house,  Alice.  It  will  be  beautiful — 
finished  in  chestnut.  We'll  build  it  under  the  apple 
and  cherry  trees.  I'll  have  a  workshop  and  make 
furniture.  I  believe  there'll  be  a  market  for  it  in 
the  city.  I  can  make  money  in  that  way.  Then 
I'll  open  a  select  school  to  prepare  the  academy 
pupils  for  college." 

"I'm  not  romantic,  Robert,"  she  answered  judi 
cially.  "Romance  doesn't  give  a  good  fixed  in 
come.  I  don't  see  anything  very  beautiful  in  living 
in  a  log  house  with  a  man  who  coolly  tells  me  his 
ambition  is  to  be  a  carpenter." 

Her  cold  implacable  perception  of  the  prosaic  side 


8o  ESTHER  DAMON 

in  the  plan  which  meant  so  much  to  him  routed  his 
self-command,  and  he  said,  "For  God's  sake,  Alice, 
stop  thinking  about  what  kind  of  a  house  you're 
to  live  in.  Consider  a  little  that  we'll  be  together. 
Did  you  marry  me  or  the  house  on  the  hill?" 

He  waited  for  her  answer.  Without  hesitation  it 
came:  "I  didn't  marry  you  at  all.  You're  a  peev 
ish,  ill-tempered  drunkard.  I  should  never  have 
married  a  man  with  hair  gray  from  drink.  I  haven't 
a  white  hair  in  my  head.  I  married  a  handsome 
young  officer." 

"Yes,"  he  answered  with  a  sigh.  "I  suppose  I'm 
the  only  person  in  Freedom  who  has  grown  old  in 
ten  years." 

"You  can  slur  me  all  you  want,"  she  responded 
in  martyred  tones.  "I  can  bear  it.  I'm  used  to  it. 
I  expect  it.  But  I  don't  intend  to  leave  pa's  com 
fortable  home.  I'm  sure  of  bread  and  butter 
here." 

"Is  there  nothing,"  he  asked  impatiently,  "greater 
than  three  meals  a  day  ?  It  seems  to  me  better  to  try 
to  make  the  unhappy  a  little  less  sad.  I've  never 
been  able  to  do  it,  but  I  will.  If  I  can  ever  do  for 
any  one  what  I  ask  of  you,  I'll  be  satisfied.  All  on 
earth  I  want,  Alice  dear,  is  faith,  not  much — a  little. 
Don't  stint  me.  Be  more  generous  than  I  deserve. 
Don't  be  another  of  my  critics.  I  have  enough  of 
them.  If  only  every  morning — whether  it's  true  or 
not — you'll  tell  me  you  have  faith  in  me,  I'll  ask 
no  more."  Needing  her  assistance,  he  seemed  to 
need  everything.  "I  know  you  have  few  faults  to 


ESTHER  DAMON  81 

make  you  indulgent  to  others.  Perhaps  I  am  piti 
ably  weak  to  urge  my  request,  but — I  need  you." 

"What  is  the  use  of  trying  to  pretend,  Robert?" 
she  said  like  an  unawakened  child  with  little  com 
prehension  of  how  deep  the  words  cut.  "I  have  no 
faith  in  you." 

Now  it  seemed  he  had  not  advanced  a  step  toward 
the  light  since  that  terrible  day  of  blackness,  when, 
alone,  he  tramped  the  dusty  highway  from  Freedom 
to  the  lake  and  return.  All  his  future  whirled  before 
him  as  a  dreary,  dusty  road  which  in  solitude  with 
the  sun  beating  on  his  aching  head  he  must  travel. 
Robert  looked  at  his  wife's  shallow,  pretty  gray  eyes, 
and  though  he  shrank  from  affixing  labels  or  giving 
judgments,  he  read  in  her  bloodless  fairness  a 
poverty  of  faith,  of  love.  "Very  well,  Alice,"  he  said 
slowly.  "I'll  not  be  more  abject.  You  shouldn't 
desire  it.  I'll  not  ask  you  again.  I  think  I  under 
stand."  With  abrupt  transition  he  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  leather  case  containing  bills  of  a  large 
denomination.  "Here  is  half  of  what  I  earned  last 
year,"  he  said  carelessly. 

Then  he  saw  what  would  bring  the  light  into  her 
eyes,  what  would  restore  the  girlish  color  to  her 
cheeks.  "Oh,  thank  you,  Robert,"  she  said,  count 
ing  the  money  before  she  inquired,  "and  have  you 
the  rest?" 

His  astonishment  increased  as  he  answered,  "Of 
course.  Why?" 

"Don't  you  think  that  you'd  better  give  it  all  to 
me  ?  You  know  I  manage  ever  so  much  better  than 


82  ESTHER  DAMON 

you.  You'll  never  build  a  house.  You'll  only  drink 
it  all  up  at  Clancy's." 

For  the  first  time  Orme  entirely  realized  that  he 
had  married  Ira  Wherritt's  daughter.  He  smiled. 
But  his  smile  twisted  into  a  queer  grimace,  as,  igno 
ring  her  doubt,  he  insisted.  "I  think  I'm  entitled  to 
half  for  the  house  I  shall  build,  Alice.  When  it's 
finished  there  will  always  be  room  in  the  house — in 
the  house,  understand — for  you." 

He  took  up  his  valise  preparatory  to  departure. 
Alice  opened  her  lips  to  speak.  He  gathered  that  now 
she  would  have  reversed  her  former  decision;  but 
he  desired  his  supreme  tribunal  to  be  unbribed.  He 
saw  that  his  wife  was  shut  off  from  him  by  the 
barrier  of  her  nature.  Neither  knew  when  one  took 
leave  of  the  other.  On  his  way  to  the  gate  he  met 
his  father-in-law  who  was  coming  from  the  store. 
No  salutation  passed  between  the  two  men. 

Orme  had  intended  to  go  directly  to  Mrs.  Brews- 
ter's  house;  but  from  the  excitement  of  disappoint 
ment  in  his  interview  with  Alice  suddenly  was  born 
in  him  a  devouring  thirst,  a  furious  need  of  rein 
forcement  of  strength,  a  need  he  thought  uprooted 
and  replaced  by  his  new  faith,  work.  On  the  in 
stant  the  drug-store,  not  the  boarding-house,  became 
his  objective  point.  While  his  new  will  asserted  its 
restraint,  his  old  will  hurried  him  on  his  way.  He 
wrestled  with  something  stronger  than  himself,  of 
treble  his  strength.  Burdened  with  apprehension  he 
entered  the  drug-store,  and  like  one  bent  on  suicide, 
purchased  a  bottle  of  brandy.  He  placed  it  in  his 


ESTHER  DAMON  83 

pocket  as  though  intending  to  use  it  for  medicine. 
And  so  indifferently  do  we  bear  the  tragedies  of 
others  that  the  druggist  winked  at  the  clerk. 

Two  figures  were  seated  on  the  Wherritt  veranda 
when  Orme,  in  passing,  heard  his  father-in-law 
drawl,  "I  don't  know,  Alice,  as  you  had  ought  to 
have  took  that  money."  Robert  could  hear  Wher 
ritt  pause  to  expectorate  tobacco-juice.  "You'll  find 
out  he  never  come  by  it  honestly.  Maybe  he  stole  it." 

Until  Robert  heard  the  sneering  words  he  had 
withstood  the  brandy.  Now,  to  the  devil  with  re 
sistance!  He  wanted  to  be  drunk  every  day  of  his 
life.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  think  of  namby- 
pamby  repentance.  Why  not  be  a  man?  He 
emptied  the  flask.  The  demon  of  rage  and  whiskey 
was  in  him.  He  longed  to  murder  his  father-in-law 
who  had  taken  Alice  away.  Picking  up  a  stone  that 
lay  in  the  road,  Robert  heaved  it  at  the  Wherritt 
house.  With  joy  he  heard  the  crashing  glass.  He 
hoped  he  had  killed  Ira  Wherritt.  He  hadn't.  He 
had  broken  a  window.  The  typhoon  of  wrath  in 
his  brain  calmed  suddenly.  He  was  steadied  by 
his  violent  act.  He  had  no  more  desire  for  whiskey. 

Mrs.  Brewster  had  been  weaving  by  the  dim  fire 
light.  Seeing  Robert  at  the  door  she  left  her  work. 
"Why,  Bobby,  to  think  you've  come  all  the  way 
from  New  York  City  to-day."  She  frankly  in 
spected  his  hat,  coat,  and  boots.  "You  do  look 
tony,  as  if  you'd  bought  out  all  New  York.  Was 
it  nice  riding  on  the  cars?  What  am  I  talking 
about?  Of  course  you  want  supper.  Folks  never 


84  ESTHER  DAMON 

get  anything  to  eat  in  New  York.  They  all  starve 
to  death  in  cities."  She  saw  the  despair  in  his  face, 
the  deep  chiselled  lines  about  his  mouth.  "Why, 
what's  the  matter,  Bobby?"  she  asked,  her  gruff 
voice  suddenly  betraying  a  maternal  cadence. 

"Man  hasn't  the  contempt  for  a  dog  that  he  has 
for  another  who  has  failed,"  he  burst  forth.  "But 
tell  me,  Aunty  Brewster,  I  may  count  on  you, 
mayn't  I?  You  are  my  friend,  you  believe  in  me." 

Mrs.  Brewster  no  longer  saw  the  seamed  cheeks, 
the  graying  hair,  the  sad  eyes.  He  was  merely  a 
cajoling,  brown-eyed  boy  pleading  with  her  to  make 
him  a  little  pie,  or  to  give  him  three  portions  of  ice 
cream.  She  was  not  entirely  certain  that  she  be 
lieved  in  his  will,  but  she  did  believe  in  his  heart. 
Placing  her  hand  on  his  head  as  she  had  not  done 
since  he  was  a  child,  she  answered.  "Why,  of 
course  I  do,  Bobby.  You  bet  I  do."  He  sank 
into  a  chair  by  her  loom,  and  she  questioned  him 
no  further.  But  once  she  paused  in  her  work  and 
shook  a  fist  of  anathema  in  the  direction  of  the 
Wherritt  house.  "Oh,  these  women!  these  women! 
I'm  ashamed  I'm  a  woman." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ONE  of  the  fairest  recollections  of  Robert  Orme's 
childhood  was  his  father's  talent  for  recounting  tales 
of  adventure.  There  came  a  day,  however,  in 
Robert's  early  boyhood,  when  Squire  Orme  was  no 
longer  called  upon  to  exercise  his  fancy  for  his  son's 
amusement.  The  lad  told  his  parent  he  could 
dream  more  beautiful  stories  himself.  Indeed,  his  un 
trammelled,  boyish  imagination  led  hiftn  into  battle 
fields  thick  with  danger,  to  the  tops  of  the  highest 
mountains,  across  the  roughest  seas.  It  gave  him 
the  companionship  of  the  bravest  men,  the  love  of 
the  most  beautiful  women. 

Orme's  first  opportunity  to  satisfy  his  yearning 
for  the  extraordinary,  came  when  at  the  beginning 
of  the  Civil  War,  a  call  was  made  for  volunteers. 
Immediately  he  and  his  brothers  offered  their  ser 
vices,  and  urged  other  men  in  the  community  to 
accompany  them.  After  four  years  of  fighting, 
Robert,  returning  to  the  village,  found  the  pursuits 
of  peace  flat.  This  hamlet  of  Freedom  where  life 
was  bounded  by  ignorance,  intolerance,  and  the  nar 
rowest  orthodoxy,  was  entirely  without  wide,  exhil 
arating  reaches  of  thought  or  action.  He  secluded 
himself  from  the  place,  excluded  it  from  his  doors; 
but  he  flung  them  open  wide  to  his  master — whiskey. 

85 


86  ESTHER  DAMON 

Now  he  was  deprived  of  the  fortune  raised  by  him  as 
a  drawbridge  over  the  moat  of  inequality  between  him 
and  the  villagers;  and  fate  pitched  him  against  his 
will  into  the  life  of  Freedom. 

After  his  return  from  New  York,  Robert  lived  at 
Mrs.  Brewster's  boarding-house.  There  he  felt  more 
keenly  than  ever  the  narrowness  and  dulness  of  the 
town.  He  was  tempted  to  leave  and  never  come 
back.  For  days  he  fought  out  with  himself  the 
question  of  his  future.  Suddenly  he  felt  the  good 
of  the  world.  Surely  there  was  something  to  be  got 
out  of  these  commonplace  days.  There  must  be 
splendid  duties  in  every  obscure  life.  Perhaps  there 
were  great  possibilities  in  this  village.  It  was 
like  a  new  dawn  when  he  recognized  his  own  duty. 
Instead  of  seeking  elsewhere  for  the  unusual,  the 
heroic,  it  would  be  better,  braver  to  try  to  find  it 
here.  He  was  as  far  from  perfection  as  Freedom. 
He  wondered  if  each  could  not  help  the  other  to 
create  a  more  decent  human  society.  Robert  saw  a 
life  work  before  him.  The  path  he  was  to  follow 
was  so  straight  as  to  bestir  his  wonder  that  he  had 
not  sooner  discovered  it. 

When  he  should  finish  the  log-cabin  planned  by 
him  he  would  go  on  working  as  a  carpenter  and 
cabinet-maker.  Even  in  the  days  of  his  prosperity 
he  had  delighted  in  reproducing  mediaeval  furniture. 
One  year's  toil  with  his  hands  had  perfected  his 
skill  to  such  a  degree  that  he  now  saw  a  livelihood 
in  manufacturing  furniture.  If  that  failed  he  would 
be  a  carpenter.  Within  a  fortnight  after  his  home- 


ESTHER  DAMON  87 

coming  Robert  put  on  a  blue  shirt  and  overalls. 
The  Four  Corners  stared  at  him  as  much  sober  as 
drunk.  But  he  was  happy  because  he  had  aban 
doned  a  false  standard  of  living.  He  was  no  longer 
a  gentleman  according  to  the  traditions  of  his  family. 
He  was  a  man. 

Building  was  not  easy  in  Freedom.  A  house  was 
seldom  erected;  so  there  were  few  carpenters.  The 
morning  when  the  ground  was  to  be  broken  for 
Orme's  log  house,  Tom  Tribble,  a  clean  faced, 
bright-eyed,  young  workman  arrived  before  the 
stone-masons  and  laborers.  Robert  noticed  that 
Mearns  was  absent.  Orme  found  him  about  to 
enter  Clancy's.  Mearns  was  drafted  into  imme 
diate,  but  reluctant  service. 

"No,  I  won't  work  on  the  same  house  with  Tom 
Tribble,"  Mearns  protested.  "He  carried  the  flag 
Decoration  Day,  and  he  didn't  know  how." 

Orme  silenced  him.  "Excuses,  Mearns!  Come 
with  me  and  next  year  I'll  see  that  you  carry  the 


There  was  great  activity  on  the  Orme  hill.  Men 
unloaded  building  materials  from  heavy  wagons. 
The  cabin  was  to  face  the  setting  sun  and  the  sweet, 
beguiling  little  lake,  with  its  unreal  blue.  Robert's 
fancy  was  that  the  house  should  sprawl  into  left  and 
right  wings,  forming  a  court  before  an  old  apple- 
tree. 

When  Orme  broke  the  earth,  he  felt  he  was 
enfranchised  into  the  true  work  of  the  world.  At 
last  he  touched  the  heart  of  life.  But  as  the  day 


88  ESTHER  DAMON 

wore  on  he  was  troubled  by  his  altered  attitude 
toward  the  men  he  employed.  When  he  gave  work 
to  others,  during  his  period  of  inherited  prosperity, 
he  felt  like  a  philanthropist.  One  year  as  a  laborer 
had  wrought  a  change.  He  recalled  that  his  em 
ployers  in  Albany  always  took  from  him  more  than 
they  gave.  Now,  though  he  was  paying  the  usual 
wage,  his  conscience  pricked  him.  He  was  not 
giving  his  helpers  what  they  earned  for  him.  He 
threw  down  the  spade  and  fetched  them  some  water 
from  the  spring.  Still  he  was  not  satisfied  with  the 
relations  between  him  and  his  men.  He  was  rob 
bing  them.  Perhaps  he  ought  to  apologize  to  them 
for  being  their  master.  But  he  had  a  great  charm 
of  being — the  laborers  liked  to  work  for  him,  and 
his  thoughts  were  soon  for  the  task. 

Often  on  this  first  morning  Robert  looked  across 
at  the  family  residence  hiding  among  the  trees.  He 
believed  it  had  never  possessed  the  meaning  for  his 
kinsmen  that  even  this  foundation  of  a  cabin  bore 
for  him.  The  four  generations  of  Ormes  living  in 
the  old  home  had  not  known  the  discipline  of  manual 
labor.  The  pompous  brick  house  stirred  in  him 
slight  regret.  Had  he  not  been  dispossessed  of  his 
property  he  would  never  have  learned  that  the  only 
way  to  understand  life  was  by  work;  the  only  way 
to  love  life  was  by  work.  Even  the  philosophies 
which  once  lay  so  near  him  were  chill  when  com 
pared  with  the  ecstasy  of  doing. 

At  noon  the  men  seated  themselves  on  the  rocks 
to  eat  their  dinner.  Orme  went  to  Mrs.  Brewster's 


ESTHER  DAMON  89 

house,  but  he  felt  he  should  have  remained  with  his 
workmen.  At  sight  of  him  the  widow  exclaimed, 
"  Why,  Bobby,  your  face  is  as  red  as  the  flag."  She 
pointed  to  the  national  colors  which  she,  a  lineal 
descendant  of  a  soldier  of  the  American  Revolution, 
kept  flying  from  her  roof.  In  her  queer  fancy  the 
presence  of  the  flag  in  that  spot  indicated  that  she 
was  a  branch  of  the  Federal  Government.  "I  can 
see  you  don't  have  to  have  work  fanned  into  your 
hands.  You've  been  going  at  it  like  fun.  I  was 
born  in  a  log  house,  and  it  will  be  kind  of  good  to 
see  one  again.  You  don't  look  like  one  of  them 
flippy-floppy  city  fops,  now,  Bobby.  Mr.  Brews- 
ter  was  a  carpenter;  I  wish  he  was  alive;  but  he 
broke  his  leg  before  you  was  born."  Mrs.  Brewster 
always  spoke  of  her  husband's  broken  leg  as  an  epic 
heroism.  It  really  came  from  slipping  on  his  wife's 
over-polished  kitchen  floor. 

Orme,  seated  at  Mrs.  Brewster's  table,  was  no 
longer  the  gray,  trembling  wreck  of  the  previous  year. 
His  body,  hardened  by  twelve  months  of  manual 
labor,  was  holding  out  beautifully.  His  new  vision 
of  life  forbade  his  resting  while  his  men  were  un 
comfortable.  After  a  light  meal,  in  spite  of  the 
protests  of  Mrs.  Brewster,  he  hurried  back  up  the 
hill,  carrying  a  pot  of  coffee.  She  called  after  him 
he  would  make  himself  sick.  He  was  only  pretend 
ing  to  be  grown.  He  wasn't.  He  never  would  be. 
When  he  wanted  anything  he  would  move  heaven 
and  earth  to  get  it.  Then  he  would  play  with  it 
day  and  night  until  he  was  tired  of  it. 


90  ESTHER  DAMON 

The  first  day  the  men  worked  till  twilight.  This 
cabin  seemed  to  belong  to  them.  They  wished  to 
see  how  soon  it  would  be  ready.  When  Robert 
considered  their  hours  of  toil,  he  said  to  himself, 
"I'm  a  robber.  I  don't  waylay  strangers.  I  way 
lay  workmen." 

The  following  day,  in  order  to  compensate  the 
builders,  he  gave  them  leave  to  cease  work  early  in 
the  afternoon ;  but  his  personality  had  a  spell.  They 
did  not  go  to  their  homes.  Sprawled  on  the  grass, 
they  fell  to  watching  the  movements  of  a  hill  of  ants. 
Observing  the  interest  of  the  men,  Robert,  who  was 
pre-eminently  a  teacher,  told  them  quite  simply  the 
story  of  the  ants,  their  laws,  their  government,  their 
battles.  In  response  to  their  questions  he  talked  an 
hour.  When  Orme  finished,  Mearns,  who  had  lis 
tened  with  wide  eyes  and  relaxed  lips,  asked,  "Do 
you  know  any  more,  Captain?"  It  was  the  pathetic 
plea  of  a  child  for  fairy  tales. 

"Yes,  Captain,  do  you  know  any  more?"  Tribble 
inquired. 

Robert  knew,  indeed,  many  more  romances  of 
nature,  of  the  birds,  their  habits,  their  flights;  of 
the  light-of-love  butterflies;  of  everything  they  saw 
about  them.  As  he  talked  with  the  men,  answering 
their  simple  questions,  he  seemed  to  give  them 
eyes  for  seeing  the  beauty  of  the  landscape,  ears  for 
hearing  the  hidden  harmonies  of  nature.  For  the 
first  time  the  toilers  found  life  to  be  more  than  the 
dull  routine  of  poverty.  Labor  was  no  longer  a 
disease;  it  was  an  ideal.  And  a  change  came  over 


ESTHER  DAMON  91 

him  as  well  that  afternoon,  something  which  fresh 
ened,  strengthened  his  existence.  When  he  found 
himself  hearing  for  his  fellow- workers,  seeing  for 
them,  thinking  for  them,  his  own  enlightenment  be 
gan.  If  only  he  could  teach  them  to  hear  and  see 
for  themselves. 

Each  afternoon  as  the  season  advanced,  Orme 
spent  an  hour  talking  with  them.  Sometimes  Carter 
sat  near  by,  rolling  his  eyes  in  wonder,  and  shaking 
his  head  over  the  surprises  in  the  unfamiliar  alpha 
bet  of  the  ways  of  nature.  Already  at  their  homes 
in  the  evening  some  of  the  men  were  groping  through 
primers  of  science,  delighting  in  their  discoveries. 
After  Orme  voluntarily  reduced  their  working  hours 
to  six,  the  men  at  the  close  of  the  day  were  like 
ambitious  children  in  their  haste  once  more  to  enter 
into  the  relation  of  teacher  and  pupil.  Their  affec 
tion  for  Robert,  their  belief  in  him,  their  faith  that 
he  could  continue  to  instruct  and  lead  them,  was  to 
him  unfailing  sustenance.  As  he  worked  with  them, 
he  reflected  that  they  were  building  more  than  a  log 
house.  They  were  building  him.  They  were  build 
ing  one  another. 

Three  months  of  work  in  the  sun.  Three  months 
of  sound  sleep.  Best  of  all,  three  months  of  trying 
to  help  his  workmen  in  their  development.  Orme's 
eyes  glowed  with  the  brilliancy  of  boyhood.  His 
dark  skin  was  ruddy  and  clear.  Save  for  the  deep 
lines  at  the  sides  of  his  mouth  and  the  inexpressible 
sadness  of  his  face  when  in  repose,  one  would  have 
believed  that  nature  had  forgotten  and  he  had  re- 


92  ESTHER  DAMON 

gained  uncorrupted  youth.  Yet  when  he  felt  most 
secure  he  found  an  abyss  at  his  feet. 

One  morning,  when  Mearns  did  not  come  to 
work  Robert  discovered  him  staggering  out  of 
Clancy's.  At  sight  of  this  flesh  and  blood  ghost  of 
his  own  past,  Orme's  heart  went  terror-sick.  Should 
he  himself  ever  stumble  over  that  precipice?  Ah, 
he  would  rather  die  than  sink  again  like  poor 
Mearns!  Others  might  smile  at  the  sight  of  the 
helpless  drunkard,  but  Orme  led  the  weakling 
home,  listened  to  his  excuses,  and  sat  with  him  all 
night,  imagining  the  horror  of  a  similar  plight  for 
himself.  Instructed  by  fear  and  sorrow,  the  next 
day  Robert  escorted  the  penitent  Mearns  back  to 
work. 

The  apples  were  falling,  dropping  into  the  open 
windows  of  the  quaint  double-winged  cabin,  when 
the  work-shop  was  finished.  So  zealous  had  been 
Orme's  effort  to  be  really  kind  to  his  employees  that 
the  final  hours  of  labor  were  for  the  workmen  like 
the  closing  of  a  romance.  Where  should  they  ever 
find  another  Robert  Orme?  Yet  he  was  not  sat 
isfied.  Looking  at  the  house  and  the  work-shop  into 
which  the  men  had  put  so  much  of  themselves,  he 
believed  he  should  share  the  home  with  them.  But 
this  appeared  impossible.  As  Robert  talked  to  the 
men  the  last  time,  some  vital  thing  seemed  about  to 
leave  him.  How  much  he  needed  them!  When 
Mearns,  speaking  for  the  others,  asked  if  they  might 
come  evenings  to  him  for  lessons,  Robert  felt  he 
had  been  saved  from  a  great  peril. 


ESTHER  DAMON  93 

Orme  did  not  meet  Alice  during  the  summer. 
She  kept  to  the  Wherritt  side  of  the  street;  he  to 
Aunty  Brewster's.  But  with  obstinate  idealism  he 
always  felt  he  was  preparing  a  home  for  her.  If 
only  she  could  see  his  beautiful  cabin.  Dr.  Yates 
and  Father  O'Darrell  had  both  called  and  admired 
his  work.  Alice  would  surely  like  it,  he  reasoned. 
Any  one  could  buy  a  handsome  house;  but  this 
house  he  had  built.  He  had  proved  himself.  Meas 
uring  his  wife  by  his  own  overbelief  he  hoped  she 
would  like  the  home  because  his  brain  had  conceived 
it,  because  his  hands  had  helped  in  the  construction. 

The  south  wing  with  its  view  of  the  sweet  stretch 
of  valley,  hills,  and  lakes,  Robert  had  reserved  for 
her.  He  decided  to  place  there  the  conventional 
mahogany  furniture  stored  in  Mrs.  Brewster's  barn. 
Thus  he  would  spare  Alice  the  sight  of  his  heavy, 
massive  things,  ridiculed  by  her  and  the  village, 
in  the  living-room  and  the  north  wing  he  occupied. 

Orme  and  Carter  drove  in  a  hired  lumber  wagon 
to  fetch  the  furniture. 

"Waal,  is  your  house  in  apple-pie  order?"  asked 
Mrs.  Brewster,  fastening  her  sleeve,  as  Orme  ap 
peared  at  her  gate.  "  Are  you  going  to  have  a  house- 
warming?" 

"I'm  afraid  no  one  would  come  to  my  party,  but 
I  hope  you  will  have  dinner  with  us  to-morrow. 
Carter  and  I  came  down  to  get  some  of  the  furniture 
in  the  barn." 

Mrs.  Brewster  rubbed  her  chin.  "What  be  you 
talking  about?" 


94  ESTHER  DAMON 

"The  furniture  I  stored  in  your  barn  a  year 
ago." 

"I'll  be  switched!  Sit  down  there."  Mrs.  Brews- 
ter  indicated  a  green  chair  behind  the  morning-glory 
vines.  "Didn't  you  know  the  furniture  was  all  sold 
to  a  second-hand  man  in  Buffalo?" 

"The  bank  had  no  right  to  it." 

"The  bank  didn't  do  it.  Your  wife  sold  it  a 
month  after  you  went  away." 

"Alice!" 

"Folks  in  cities  are  crazy  about  mahogany.  She 
got  top-notch  prices.  They  took  the  books  and  all 
to  get  the  mahogany." 

"Not  my  books?"  he  stammered.  This  was  the 
conclusive  blow  that  demolished  the  last  bit  of  sen 
timent  lingering  in  him  for  Alice. 

"Yes,  she's  just  like  her  father.  They  don't  come 
it  over  her.  She  made  a  first-rate  bargain." 

Robert  caught  only  the  last  words.  Bargain! 
Bargain !  Of  course  she  did !  Ira  Wherritt  was  rich 
and  Alice  bargained  his  books  away !  Anger  burned 
in  his  blood.  Greed!  Greed!  How  he  hated  it! 
How  he  hated  her!  She  had  taken  his  books.  She 
had  sold  his  dearest  friends.  He  could  have  strangled 
the  greed  out  of  her.  His  books!  How  dared  a 
barbarian  like  her  touch  his  books?  What  did  she 
know  about  them  or  care?  She  had  bartered  his 
happiness  for  a  savings-bank  account.  Now  he  had 
no  money  for  more  books,  and  heaven  only  knew 
when  he  should  have.  "My  books,"  he  almost 
moaned.  The  future  closed  against  him.  What 


ESTHER  DAMON  95 

should  he  do  in  the  dark,  haunted  night  without  his 
books  ?  How  could  he  live  ? 

Clancy's!  How  the  bottles  gleamed  like  great 
jewels!  How  the  wine  danced  and  beguiled!  How 
the  fumes  rose  sweet  to  his  nostrils!  How  the 
fragrant  languorous  world  reeled !  Ah,  wine  was  the 
friend  when  all  else  failed! 

"Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  Bobby,"  broke  in  Mrs. 
Brewster,  on  his  meditation.  "I  bought  a  few  of  your 
books  from  the  Buffalo  auctioneer.  I  ain't  got  no 
use  for  'em  myself.  They  only  clutter  up  the  par 
lor."  She  opened  the  door  leading  off  the  piazza. 
"But  you  liked  'em,  and  they  made  me  kind  of  think 
of  you.  You  see  they  all  said  you  was  dead." 

In  the  darkened  parlor,  seldom  opened,  Robert 
saw  Mrs.  Brewster's  what-not  filled  with  his  best- 
beloved  volumes.  Aunty  Brewster  had  chosen  those 
most  worn  by  use.  "You  can  take  'em  up  to  your 
house,  Bobby.  Ketch  me  reading  one  of  'em." 

His  anger,  the  despair  caused  by  losing  the  books, 
the  surprise  of  their  discovery  when  he  thought  he 
should  never  see  them  again,  overcame  him.  He 
threw  his  arms  round  her  and  sobbed. 


CHAPTER  IX 

FREEDOM  wondered  whether  Alice  Orme  would 
return  to  Orme.  Ira  Wherritt,  when  questioned,  be 
came  profane  on  the  subject;  he  said  he'd  see  that 
scoundrel  damned  before  Alice  should  go  and  live 
with  him  in  a  shanty.  Would  they  believe  it? 
Orme  tried  to  murder  his  wife  when  he  came  back 
from  New  York.  This  beautiful  ball  of  scandal  was 
tossed  into  the  Four  Corners.  Pat  Clancy  sent  it 
twirling  across  the  street.  Job  Spear  added  a  gen 
erous  impetus.  When  it  reached  Hood's,  half  a 
dozen  contributed  kicks,  landing  it  at  its  final  goal — 
Deacon  Snead's  house.  Then  the  ball  was  rolled 
up  and  down  the  winter  streets,  growing  like  the 
great  snow  monsters  made  by  school-boys  on  Robert 
Orme's  hill. 

Aunty  Brewster  warred  against  Robert's  detrac 
tors,  called  them  "copperheads,"  accused  them  of 
sympathy  with  the  assassination  of  President  Lin 
coln.  Doctor  Yates  never  lost  an  opportunity  to 
deepen  in  Robert  the  sense  of  his  confidence  in  his 
friend's  new  will.  The  physician,  enswathed  in 
mufflers  and  shawls,  early  in  the  winter,  stopped  his 
"cutter"  before  Robert's  door.  He  brought  his  shy, 
slender  son  Irving,  with  his  Keats-like  face,  to 
Orme  for  lessons.  Irving  must  be  ready  for  college 
next  year. 

96 


ESTHER  DAMON  97 

The  following  Sunday  Dr.  Yates  was  waylaid  by 
Deacon  Snead  coming  out  of  the  Baptist  church. 

"Ain't  it  pretty  risky,  doctor,  to  let  that  Bob 
Orme  teach  Irving?  Ain't  you  afraid  he'll  turn  out 
to  be  a  drunkard  or  an  infidel,  or  a  murderer?" 

"Nonsense,"  laughed  Dr.  Yates,  shaking  his  fine 
old  head.  "I've  known  Robert  ever  since  he  was 
born.  He's  a  hero." 

"They  say  he  was  a  good  soldier,"  reluctantly 
conceded  the  deacon,  "but  you  never  can  tell.  I 
didn't  read  anything  about  it  in  the  Tribune." 

"War!  Murder!  That's  nothing.  Robert  is  a 
good  soldier  now,  every  day.  It's  much  greater. 
I  hope  he  teaches  that  to  Irving." 

"Do  you  want  Irving  to  live  with  tramps?"  in 
sisted  the  deacon  as  Dr.  Yates  slipped  on  the  icy 
sidewalk  in  his  haste  to  depart. 

"I'd  like  Irving  to  give  up  his  bed  to  a  sick  tramp 
and  sleep  on  the  floor  as  Robert  did  the  other  night. 
But  I'm  afraid  my  boy  is  too  much  like  me  ever  to 
do  that." 

When  Deacon  Snead  and  his  wife  met  over  the 
mid-day  meal,  he  told  her  he  thought  Dr.  Yates  was 
crazy.  He  let  Irving  go  to  Bob  Orme's  every  day, 
and  the  doctor  said  he  wanted  his  boy  to  live  with 
tramps.  Mrs.  Snead  answered  that  Irving  Yates 
would  probably  be  hanged. 

Robert  learned  from  Aunty  Brewster  of  the  con 
troversy  raging  about  his  separation  from  his  wife. 
He  shuddered  at  the  possibility  of  Alice's  return. 
His  marriage  was  much  less  marriage  than  if  she 


98  ESTHER  DAMON 

were  dead.  She  hung  like  a  weight  round  his  neck. 
With  all  his  strength  he  wished  he  could  cut  the 
tie  binding  her  to  him.  He  tried  to  forget  her  in 
laughter — laughter  and  work.  He  sharpened  his 
vigilance,  hardened  his  will  with  discipline  and  work. 
After  overcoming  his  fury  for  self-abandonment  to 
drink,  he  was  urged  into  work  by  an  unceasing 
force.  His  imagination  outran  all  conceivable  hu 
man  capacity  for  accomplishment;  but  he  kept  on 
as  if  he  could  embody  all  his  dreams  in  achievement. 
Now  that  he  saw  life  and  knew  it,  his  enthusiasm 
carried  him  onward  like  an  eagle's  wing. 

He  was  up  early  in  the  morning,  shovelling  snow 
away  from  the  path  to  the  gate,  cleaning  and  var 
nishing  furniture  in  his  shop,  preparing  his  first 
shipment  for  the  market.  This  was  before  Irving 
Yates'  lesson  hours.  In  the  afternoon  he  experi 
mented  with  dyes,  improving  on  what  Mrs.  Brewster 
taught  him.  By  lowering  and  softening  the  tones 
of  her  carpets,  he  thought  they  might  find  sale  in  the 
city.  She  told  him  his  colors  weren't  colors  at  all. 
His  yellows  weren't  yellows.  As  for  red,  give  her 
good  old-fashioned  turkey-red.  His  blues  were  all 
faded  out.  Yet  she  followed  his  suggestions.  When 
later  Robert  sent  to  New  York  a  piece  of  Mrs. 
Brewster's  carpet,  with  a  set  of  his  oak  household 
furniture,  she  told  him  she  was  sure  city  folks 
wouldn't  want  such  stuff.  But  every  day  she  made 
a  point  of  seeing  him  and  asking  for  news.  None 
came. 

One  December  afternoon   Robert,  leaving  Mrs. 


ESTHER  DAMON  99 

Brewster's,  a  few  minutes  after  the  bell  of  the 
academy  ceased  ringing,  found  himself  in  a  throng 
of  young  people  on  their  way  to  coast  down  his 
hill  and  to  skate  on  the  lake.  A  dozen  lads  outran 
their  school -fellows,  eager  to  reach  the  fort  at 
Orme's  gate  he  had  built  with  them  out  of  snow. 
They  shouted.  They  threw  snowballs.  They 
washed  one  another's  faces.  He  was  on  good  terms 
with  the  very  young,  the  weak,  the  helpless,  but 
his  life  had  estranged  him  from  most  of  the  villagers. 
He  was  acquainted  with  few  of  the  older  students, 
and  so  he  loitered  behind  them. 

Lucy  Yates  helloed  to  him  with  her  muff  as  she 
passed.  Lucy,  blue-eyed,  round-cheeked,  downy, 
dimpled,  was  the  sister  of  Irving.  Light-footed, 
graceful,  fair-haired,  she  wore  a  white  cap,  a  pretty 
gray  coat,  and  a  white  fur  collar.  Her  right  arm 
encircled  the  waist  of  a  tall  girl  enveloped  in  a  large 
fringed  shawl  which  hung  straight  and  loose  from 
her  shoulders  to  the  bottom  of  the  skirt,  draping  her 
entire  figure  with  dusky  grace.  In  spite  of  the 
dingy  black  shawl,  held  together  by  bare  rosy  hands, 
Esther  Damon  carried  her  head  like  a  splendid, 
barbaric  chief tainess.  As  she  walked,  her  slender 
waist  swayed  like  the  stem  of  a  flower.  Orme  had 
not  seen  her  in  more  than  a  year.  He  wondered  if 
she  would  remember  him.  He  almost  stopped  still 
as  he  awaited  her  recognition.  For  a  second  his 
working  clothes  served  as  a  disguise.  Then  she 
greeted  him  charmingly.  Inherently  she  knew  how 
to  bow.  He  walked  on  behind  her  and  Lucy  Yates, 


ioo  ESTHER  DAMON 

and  it  gladdened  him  to  recall  that  in  Esther  Da 
mon's  home  was  the  portrait  of  Wesley.  It  would 
always  remain  there.  What  if  Alice  had  sold  the 
picture ! 

Among  the  students  were  pranks  and  sallies  and 
laughter.  One  youth  alone  was  deprived  of  com 
radeship.  He  fairly  glittered  in  his  city  apparel  as 
he  drew  after  him  a  bright  red  coaster.  Orme  saw 
that  he  glittered  and  flashed  alone.  This  boy  was 
Harry  Clancy,  who  before  and  after  school  hours, 
kept  the  bar  at  the  Ivy  Green.  He  was  better 
dressed  than  the  others,  and  handsome  in  a  dash 
ing,  actor-like  way;  but  Orme  soon  discovered  that 
Clancy  was  the  pariah  of  the  school.  Robert  had 
a  tenderness  for  pariahs,  being  one  himself,  though 
in  a  different  category  from  Clancy.  Robert  thrust 
himself  on  no  one.  Those  who  knew  him  must 
come  every  inch  of  the  way.  But  in  the  well-clad 
Clancy,  the  essence  of  the  tavern  and  its  heart-break 
ing  degradation,  Orme  observed  an  effort  to  bribe 
his  way  to  village  favor. 

Irving  began  the  afternoon  sport.  He  took  Es 
ther  Damon  and  Lucy  Yates  on  his  sled.  Harry 
offered  his  coaster  to  several  of  the  girls.  By  each 
it  was  declined.  Then  he  invited  some  boys.  They 
too  found  places  elsewhere  or  were  going  to  skate. 
At  last  Clancy  went  down  the  slope  alone.  When 
they  all  came  back,  frolicking  up  the  hill,  puffing, 
panting,  he  was  still  alone. 

There  was  a  second  series  of  invitations.  Clancy 
again  made  himself  a  target  for  village  brutality. 


ESTHER  DAMON  101 

Esther  Damon  watched  the  scene.  In  her  intent 
eyes  Orme  observed  an  expression  of  pain — pain 
she  had  not  herself  endured,  but  which  had  been 
transmitted  to  her  by  those  who  sang  in  flames. 
Now  the  meaning  in  her  face  which  shone,  expelled 
all  others,  and  transformed  her,  was  pity.  Ernest 
Chase,  the  curly-headed,  freckled-nosed  son  of  the 
druggist,  teasingly  pulled  one  of  Esther's  long  auburn 
braids.  "What's  the  matter,  red  head?" 

He  got  no  further.  Harry  leaped  upon  Ernest, 
dragged  him  to  the  side  of  the  road,  thrust  his  head 
into  a  snow-bank,  commanded,  "Take  it  back! 
Say  you're  sorry." 

"I'm  sorry,"  came  the  half-smothered  apology. 

Orme  was  no  longer  interested  in  the  battle  of 
Bunker  Hill  at  his  gate.  He  watched  the  juvenile 
tournament  of  chivalry.  Esther's  hands  were  clasped. 
Her  eyes  followed  Clancy.  The  defender  came  back 
for  his  reward.  It  was  these  words,  "May  I  ride 
with  you,  Harry?" 

"I'd  like  mighty  well  to  have  you,  if  you  would," 
he  answered. 

Orme  sickened  as  he  saw  Esther  take  a  seat  on 
Clancy's  sled.  "My  goodness!  What  would  Es 
ther's  father  say?"  Ernest  Chase  asked. 

Ella  Cowley's  question  was  even  more  confounding. 
"What  would  Esther's  mother  say?" 

Orme  wondered,  what  indeed,  if  that  saint-faced 
woman  had  seen  her  daughter.  Yet  he  fancied 
somewhere  the  girl  had  learned  to  be  strong.  Her 
conduct  would  often  contradict  her  upbringing. 


102  ESTHER  DAMON 

Mrs.  Damon,  he  believed,  could  no  longer  keep 
Esther  in  a  garret.  He  turned  away  from  the  sight 
of  what  he  thought  was  Esther  Damon  and  Harry 
Clancy  coasting  down  the  hill,  the  girl's  red  braids 
waving  rebelliously  in  the  breeze.  In  reality,  he 
turned  his  back  on  a  miracle,  but  no  one  knew  it. 

The  miracle  began  this  way.  Esther  looked  at 
Harry.  Harry  looked  at  Esther.  They  smiled. 
They  were  close  together.  The  December  wind  blew 
on  their  faces.  Their  throats  swelled.  Their  hearts 
beat  fast. 

"You're  the  nicest  girl  in  town,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  Harry!" 

"And  the  prettiest." 

"I,  pretty?"  The  thought  made  her  drunk. 
"Why  .  .  .  I'm  awfully  ugly.  .  .  .  I  have  red  hair." 

"I  like  red  hair  best  of  all.  Yours  is  beautiful. 
Your  eyes  are  so  dark." 

It  was  the  first  compliment  she  had  ever  received, 
she  who  had  hungered  all  her  life  for  beauty,  who 
loved  Lucy  Yates  because  she  thought  Lucy  beauti 
ful.  Esther  was  no  longer  Esther.  Harry  was  no 
longer  Harry.  He  was  a  hero.  She  was  one  of 
those  wonderful  creatures  in  the  "Duchess"  that 
she  and  Lucy  used  to  read  about  in  Lucy's  play 
house.  This  wasn't  Freedom.  Esther  and  Harry 
weren't  coasting.  They  were  floating  over  the  tops 
of  mountains  to  Mars  or  Heaven. 

Orme  sat  before  his  large  work-desk  in  the  living- 
room,  haunted  by  what  he  had  seen.  The  day  was 
stained  for  him.  He  opened  a  drawer,  took  out  a 


ESTHER  DAMON  103 

note  and  read  the  postscript.  "I  don't  think  you 
are  very  wicked."  Who  but  Esther  Damon  would 
have  written  that  to  him  a  year  and  a  half  ago? 
Again  this  afternoon  in  this  hostile  town  her  eyes 
had  said,  "I  don't  think  you're  very  wicked."  How 
much  toleration  might  she  not  have  for  Clancy? 
Robert  looked  about  the  bare  cabin  walls.  The 
only  picture  in  his  possession  was  this  bit  of  card 
board  in  his  hand.  The  green  night,  the  great 
golden  moon,  produced  a  wonderful  illusion.  He 
placed  the  picture  over  the  fireplace.  Then  he 
walked_away  to  look.  Near  the  moon  were  two 
strokes  of  white  chalk.  They  might  have  been 
intended  for  two  clouds  or  for  ...  two  souls.  He 
gazed  until  he  was  in  a  world  he  had  never  seen, 
where  nights  were  emerald  and  gold.  He  lived  in 
that  world.  He  was  one  of  those  white  clouds. 
This  was  another  miracle. 

He  scarce  noticed  when  Carter  brought  the  letters 
from  the  post-office  and  placed  them  at  his  side. 
Not  until  there  was  silence  without,  and  the  snow  fell 
in  large,  swift,  fast-melting  flakes,  did  he  read  by 
the  light  of  the  log,  that  the  furniture  and  carpets 
at  the  Exposition  in  the  city  had  been  sold. 


CHAPTER  X 

ORME'S  world  was  transformed.  Three  persons  in 
New  York  had  bought  his  furniture.  Perhaps  there 
would  be  thirty.  Thirty  promised  three  hundred. 
Three  hundred  would  span  the  wide  chasm  between 
success  and  failure.  Success  was  his  goal.  For  he 
believed  he  could  do  a  big,  permanent  thing — he 
could  humanize  commerce  in  the  village.  He  sum 
moned  the  men  who  had  helped  him  build  the  house 
and  work-shop.  Mearns  and  Tribble  returned  with 
glad  eyes  and  glad  hearts.  They  sang  as  they 
worked.  They  were  paid  in  more  than  gold  for 
their  toil.  Their  tools  were  more  than  wood  and 
steel.  They  were  love  and  joy. 

Two  expert  cabinet-makers  came  from  Buffalo. 
They  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  this  Robert 
Orme  kind  of  a  world,  the  doors  of  which  were  never 
closed,  which  was  a  hospital  for  lame  dogs,  tramps, 
and  sufferers.  The  little  factory  was  like  a  house  of 
worship.  Robert's  living-room  was  given  to  the  men. 
His  evening  hours  were  theirs.  And  many  strange, 
pent-up  confessions  came  to  his  ears.  Though  he 
did  his  best  to  democratize  the  industry,  to  sweep 
away  the  cruelties  of  established  society,  he  was  not 
satisfied.  He  desired  more  for  the  men  than  they 

104 


ESTHER  DAMON  105 

hoped  for  themselves.  He  determined  as  soon  as 
possible  to  cease  living  on  the  profits  of  his  em 
ployees'  toil. 

The  demand  for  Mrs.  Brewster's  rag  carpets  in 
creased  Orme's  hopes.  The  carpets  were  liked  even 
better  than  his  furniture,  especially  those  of  which 
the  greens  weren't  green  and  the  blues  weren't 
blue.  "What  city  folks  can  see  in  those  washed- 
out  colors  is  more  than  I  can  understand,"  was  Mrs. 
Brewster's  pleased  comment.  "I  like  something  I 
can  see  without  specks." 

But  city  folks  saw  so  much  in  the  carpets  that 
Mrs.  Brewster's  shuttle  flew  all  day  and  far  into  the 
night.  When  spring  came,  carpet-weaving  had  ex 
pelled  the  boarders.  In  May  she  and  Orme  decided 
that  more  looms  must  be  purchased  and  that  ad 
ditional  women  must  be  engaged  to  sew  rags  and 
"trip  the  treadle." 

Orme  placarded  Spear's,  Hood's,  and  Chase's 
drug-store  with  requests  for  weavers.  Many  women 
in  Freedom  could  weave,  and  the  thrifty  creatures 
pricked  up  their  ears.  Making  rag  carpet  was  easy. 
The  women  saw  a  means  of  procuring  pin  money; 
but  no  sooner  did  they  consider  working  for  Orme 
than  the  venture  took  on  social  and  theological  as 
pects.  Would  it  be  prudent  for  young  girls,  spin 
sters,  and  matrons  to  have  even  formal  business 
relations  with  a  drunkard  like  Orme — an  infidel 
whose  opinions  were  a  crime,  a  man  who  attempted 
to  murder  his  wife  ?  Of  course  Orme  the  employer 
was  a  different  person  from  Orme  the  bankrupt. 


io6  ESTHER  DAMON 

He  was  more  respectable.  He  had  paid  his  bill  at 
Clancy's,  and  the  postmaster  reported  that  consider 
able  sums  had  been  transferred  by  him  to  Robert. 
But  Mrs.  Snead  at  her  quilting-bee  decided  the  so 
cial  side  of  the  question.  Grandmother  as  she  was, 
she  wouldn't  risk  her  good  name  by  darkening  that 
man's  door. 

The  Baptist  and  Congregational  ministers  who 
thought  for  Freedom,  theologically,  had  not  met  since 
an  unlucky  union  revival  meeting  two  years  pre 
viously.  Now  they  came  together  to  define  Robert's 
status  among  church-members.  Backed  up  with 
many  biblical  quotations  it  was;  Christians  must 
draw  the  line  somewhere.  The  solid  element  of  the 
community  must  wash  their  hands  of  him.  Let 
Robert  Orme  find  his  work-women  among  the 
ne'er-do-wells  gathered  about  him. 

Such  was  the  little  corner  of  the  world  where 
Robert  hoped  the  "I"  would  be  abolished,  where 
the  Golden  Rule  would  become  second  nature,  and 
brotherhood  would  reign.  He  realized  that  his  had 
been  a  tipsy  dream.  Kindness  had  not  touched  the 
village  to  kindness.  None  would  work  for  him 
save  the  wife  and  daughter  of  the  blacksmith, 
Michael  Magee.  Orders  for  carpets  must  remain 
unfulfilled  unless  Orme  should  send  to  Ripon  for 
helpers.  The  size  and  uncertainty  of  the  industry 
rendered  this  plan  impracticable. 

At  the  same  time  Mrs.  Brewster  was  almost  as 
trying  as  Freedom.  Her  Massachusetts  prejudice 
against  those  so  unfortunate  as  not  to  be  born  in 


ESTHER  DAMON  107 

the  United  States  was  a  fresh  obstacle.  "I'm  Ameri 
can,  Bobby.  None  of  them  amalgamated  foreigners 
in  my  house,  no!"  The  final  syllable  was  a  fiat. 
"My  grandfather  fought  at  Bunker  Hill  and  my 
father  trained  in  the  Massachusetts  militia  for  years. 
Foreigners  are  nothing  but  spies."  To  Mrs.  Brews- 
ter  her  house  was  a  fortress  held  by  her  in  readiness 
for  saving  the  nation  from  foreign  invasion. 

"But  the  Magees  aren't  foreigners,"  Orme  said. 
"They  are  decent  people,  born  in  America." 

She  was  not  to  be  shaken  in  her  edict.  "They're 
Catholics." 

"So  were  we  all,  Aunty,  not  so  long  ago." 

Mrs.  Brewster  massacred  history  with,  "Mebbe 
you,  Bobby.  Never  me." 

"What  does  it  matter?"  Orme  held  out  in  vexa 
tion.  "Why  should  we  care?  Those  you  call  real 
Americans  won't  work  for  me.  I'm  grateful  to  the 
Magees  if  they'll  come.  You'll  let  them,  won't  you, 
Aunty?  They'll  be  here  to-morrow  morning." 

Mrs.  Brewster  would  give  no  direct  answer;  but 
Robert  knew  that  after  she  had  talked  herself  out 
she  would  yield.  This  was  her  way.  "I've  had 
my  sleeves  rolled  up  for  thirty  years,  but  these 
people  in  Freedom  won't  work,"  Orme  heard  her 
say  as  he  left  the  house.  "They're  afraid  of  you, 
Bobby.  Christianity!"  she  snorted,  "Don't  talk  to 
me  of  Christianity  in  Freedom.  They  don't  know 
the  meaning  of  the  word.  Jesus  would  be  glad  to 
be  crucified  to  get  out  of  this  place." 

Ordinarily,  Mrs.  Brewster's  tirades  amused  Orme, 


io8  ESTHER  DAMON 

but  not  to-day.  He  quitted  her  because  he  could 
endure  no  more.  He  was  tired  of  bitterness,  anger, 
hatred,  unforgiveness.  He  longed  for  solitude.  Yes, 
Freedom  was  unprepared  for  brotherhood,  and 
would  remain  unprepared  until  some  distant  Uto 
pian  day  never  to  be  seen  by  him.  But  this  was  no 
reason  for  altering  his  course.  He  was  working, 
not  only  for  Freedom,  but  for  himself.  The  world 
would  be  readier  for  brotherhood  if  first  he  made 
Robert  Orme  worthy. 

With  a  conscious  effort  of  the  will  he  steadied  him 
self  for  the  ascent  of  the  hill,  his  disjointed  thoughts 
focussed  on  the  hopelessness  of  his  vision.  At  a 
certain  point  in  the  road,  as  was  his  custom,  he  halted, 
looking  back.  Esther  Damon,  very  near,  now  bounded 
toward  him.  When  she  saw  him  she  paused.  The 
sight  of  the  girl  annulled  his  vexation.  He  removed 
his  hat.  He  wondered  if  she  wished  to  speak  with 
him,  or  if  by  any  chance  she  had  come  to  pray. 
Robert  noticed  the  restlessness  of  her  ungloved  hands 
as  she  resumed  her  pace.  He  suspected  she  was 
nervous;  but  there  was  no  flush  in  the  pale,  fine  skin. 
Her  large,  heavy-lidded  eyes  gazed  at  him  with  the 
calm  of  a  statue.  In  the  silky,  contralto  voice  he 
recalled  so  well,  she  explained  her  presence.  "Mr. 
Orme,  I  read  the  notice  in  the  post-office  that  you 
would  like  some  women  to  sew  rags  and  learn  to 
weave." 

What  destiny  sent  her  to  him  the  second  time  in  a 
crisis! 

"Yes,  I'd  like  to  employ  some  weavers,  but  people 


ESTHER  DAMON  109 

are  so  afraid  of  me  in  this  village  that  I  can't  get 
them." 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  she  answered.  "I  tell  every  one 
you  gave  mother  that  picture  of  Wesley."  The  re 
alization  that  Esther  Damon  had  defended  him  gave 
Orme  a  dizzy  feeling.  "Do  you  think  I  could  ever 
earn  five  dollars?"  she  asked.  He  did  not  answer 
until  she  said  despairingly,  "Oh,  you  don't  think  so." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Brewster  makes  as  much  weaving  as 
she  did  with  all  her  boarders." 

"Mrs.  Brewster  weaves  all  the  time,  doesn't  she? 
I  couldn't  do  that.  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  give  more 
than  an  hour  or  two  a  day — because 

"Because?"  he  questioned  in  gentle  scrutiny, 
"Because?" 

It  came  out  with  some  difficulty.  "Working  for 
you  would  have  to  be  a  secret  from  my  father  and 
mother." 

In  this  moment  he  wished  she  had  never  seen 
him  at  Clancy's.  "Because  I'm  so  very  bad,  they 
think?" 

"Oh,  you're  not  wicked — not  really  wicked. 
Only  you  don't  believe  in  God." 

"I  really  do  prefer  stars  to  candles.  Is  that  so 
bad?" 

"You  don't  seem  very  different  to  me  from  any  one 
else,  Mr.  Orme.  Perhaps  you  never  heard  very  much 
about  God.  But  I'm  worse.  I  was  brought  up  on 
Him.  I  try  to  love  Him,  but  I  can't.  I  never  saw 
a  spirit  or  an  angel  in  my  life.  My  mother  sees  them 
every  day.  I  love  only  the  things  I  see.  This  is  the 


no  ESTHER  DAMON 

first  time  I  ever  dared  say  it.  But  I  must  talk  to 
some  one."  He  saw  how  great  had  been  her  need  of 
confession,  when  with  such  candor  she  gave  him  her 
confidence.  "  Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  say  it,  but  how 
can  I  love  God  when  He  wants  me  to  wear  such 
homely  things  ?  I  hate  everything  I  have  on.  Look 
at  my  shoes."  She  made  a  motion  to  kick  them  from 
her  feet.  "They're  too  large  for  me  and  were  given 
me  by  Sister  Simpkins.  Jesus  told  her  to  give  them 
to  me  after  she  had  worn  them  out.  It  was  very 
nice  of  her,  but  I'm  the  only  girl  in  Freedom  who 
wears  these  heavy  shoes  in  the  summer.  No  one  ever 
had  a  hat  like  mine." 

Orme  believed  her.  It  was  a  little  gray  blending 
of  bonnet  and  hat,  and  Orme  believed  too  that  no 
one  ever  looked  in  it  quite  as  she  did.  Esther  did 
not  realize  that  the  hat  seemed  exquisitely  made  for 
her  any  more  than  she  knew  that  the  gray  gown 
was  a  perfect  background  for  her  hair.  "Isn't  it 
strange,"  she  went  on,  "that  God  should  ever 
want  any  one  to  look  like  this?  He  does  and  my 
father  and  mother  say  He'll  punish  me  if  I  ever 
wear  anything  else.  That's  another  reason  why 
my  work  must  be  a  secret.  But  I'd  rather  God  did 
punish  me  if  I  can  only  have  some  bright  flowers  in 
my^hat,  and  a  bottle  of  perfume,  and  some  lace  col 
lars  and  cuffs  and  a  ribbon  bow.  I  think  I  could 
get  them  all  for  five  dollars." 

Orme  would  have  been  moved  to  mirth  had  he  not 
made  out  of  her  words  a  strong  recoil  against  the 
restriction  of  her  skimped  environment.  He  won- 


ESTHER  DAMON  in 

dered  how  far  her  revolt  would  carry  her.  "You 
ought  easily  to  be  able  to  get  those  things,  but,"  he 
hesitated,  "where  shall  you  wear  them?" 

"When  I'm  at  Lucy  Yates's,  at  school,  any 
where  except  when  I'm  at  home.  If  Father  and 
Mother  ever  saw  such  things  on  me  they  would 
think  I  was  lost.  They'd  think  I  was  as  bad  as— 

He  supplied  the  word.  "The  infidel.  Oh,  yes, 
I  know  what  they  call  me."  He  had  never  been 
so  wounded  by  the  disapproval  of  the  village.  He 
longed  to  beg  this  girl  to  believe  the  best  of  him. 
But  why  should  she  consider  him  at  all? 

"You'll  think  I'm  awfully  deceitful  in  having 
secrets  from  my  parents,  but  I  can't  help  it.  You'll 
not  tell?" 

"No  one." 

"That's  splendid,"  she  said,  clasping  her  hands. 
"And  after  I've  earned  my  ribbons  and  lace.  ..." 
He  waited  for  her  words.  "I'll  work  for  nothing,  if 
only  you'll  prepare  me  for  college  as  you're  teaching 
Lucy  Yates.  I'll  finish  the  Academy  this  year,  then 
I'll  study  for  Mount  Holyoke  and  go  with  Lucy." 

"Why  do  you  want  to  go  to  college?" 

"To  get  away  from  Freedom  and  have  a  chance 
in  life,"  she  exclaimed,  her  voice  vibrant  with  in 
tensity.  "If  I  stay  here  much  longer  I'll  beat  the 
air  with  my  fists.  It  just  chokes  me.  Do  you 
think  I  can  go?" 

They  reached  the  top  of  the  hill.  Her  eager  glance 
told  him  how  much  his  answer  meant  to  her.  "I'm 
sure  of  it,"  he  answered  quietly.  "Why  not?" 


112  ESTHER  DAMON 

She  moved  toward  him  impulsively.  "Oh,  I'm 
so  happy.  To-morrow  I'm  going  to  sit  in  the  stage 
before  it  starts  and  say  to  it,  'Some  day  you're  going 
to  take  me,  too.'  I'll  go  to  Ripon  and  then  to 
Mount  Holyoke,  away  into  another  state." 

His  imagination  lingered  on  the  possibilities  of  her 
future.  "And  after  Mount  Holyoke?" 

"After  I  graduate  I  want  to  teach  school.  Won't 
that  be  glorious?" 

He  could  not  see  her  as  a  school-teacher;  but  he 
smiled  at  her  delight.  She  went  on  as  if  she  saw  a 
mirage  of  splendor.  "Some  day  I'll  earn  so  much 
money  teaching  that  I'll  buy  a  white  dress  and  one 
the  color  of  lilacs  just  like  the  dress  of  the  city  girl 
who  is  visiting  Harry  Clancy's  sister.  She  looks  like 
a  fashion  plate.  I  never  had  a  white  or  lilac  dress  in 
my  life."  Orme  observed  that  Maggie  Clancy  was 
merely  Harry  Clancy's  sister.  His  thought  raced 
back  to  the  December  day  which  still  haunted  him. 
Could  it  be,  he  asked  himself  uneasily,  that  these 
feminine  longings  for  adornment  had  been  awakened 
by  Harry  Clancy?  Impossible.  "I'm  away  ahead 
of  Irving  Yates  in  school.  Do  you  think  you  can 
prepare  me  for  college  in  a  year?" 

"A  year!"  he  repeated.  A  year  of  being  with  her 
every  day!  "Let  me  see — "  His  eyes  half  closed. 
"A  year."  What  would  he  not  give  for  such  a  year ? 
Did  such  years  really  come  to  men?  His  thoughts 
suffocated  him.  Of  how  much  had  he  been  cheated ! 
One  year  at  her  side  would  excuse  life.  "Yes,  I 
should  think  so,"  he  added  calmly  and  then  ques- 


ESTHER  DAMON  113 

tioned,  "But  do  your  parents  wish  you  to  go  to 
college?" 

"No — no,"  she  shook  her  head  as  if  he  had  thrust 
a  fearful  obstacle  within  her  view.  "I  pray  every 
night  to  go  to  college,  and  I'm  sure  I  shall.  But 
they  want  me  to  go  to  Japan  as  a  missionary  to  the 
heathen.  Sometimes  I  think  I'm  a  heathen  myself 
and  it  would  be  wicked  of  me  to  go.  I'd  so  much 
rather  stay  right  here  and  work  day  and  night  to 
get  money  to  go  to  college." 

Her  touching,  absorbing  little  ambition  moved 
Robert.  He  would  have  been  happy  to  annul  her 
need  of  struggle;  but  he  was  helpless.  He  was  in 
so  strange  and  unexpressed  a  relation  to  her  mother 
that  he  could  not  go  farther  without  reference  to 
the  bent  and  feeble  old  lady  who  seemed  always  to 
be  gazing  at  a  vision  of  the  crucifixion.  "What  will 
Mrs.  Damon  say?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,  or  rather  I  do  know,  but  I  pray 
she'll  change  her  mind,"  she  answered  despair 
ingly.  "I  can't  be  a  missionary.  All  my  life  I've 
committed  to  memory  psalms  and  I've  read  aloud 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs,  and 
Jeremy  Taylor's  Sermons.  I've  tried  to  pray  in 
the  streets  with  my  mother,  but  though  I  was  starved 
for  days,  and  father  carried  me  to  the  altar  in  his 
arms — they  broke  the  ice  for  my  baptism  in  the 
dead  of  winter — I  was  never  really  converted.  I 
don't  see  Heaven,  nor  hell.  I  don't  have  visions. 
I  can't  be  a  missionary;  yet  I  can't  grieve  them  by 
saying  so.  Sometimes  I'm  afraid  my  not  wishing 


114  ESTHER  DAMON 

to  go  means  something  dreadful.  Perhaps  I  have 
devils  in  me.  Do  you  suppose  I  have?"  she  anx 
iously  asked. 

When  Orme  saw  the  stress  under  which  this  ques 
tion  of  faith  caused  her  to  labor,  he  wondered  if  he 
ought  not  challenge  her  home  training.  He  re 
strained  himself  out  of  respect  for  the  sincerity,  the 
self-imposed  poverty,  and  the  lives  of  self-abnega 
tion  of  her  parents.  "Why,  you  poor  child,"  he 
answered,  "of  course  you  haven't.  No  one  has — 
except  perhaps  me,"  he  added  with  a  smile. 

"Don't  you  think  so?"  she  questioned  dubiously. 

"You  wish  to  live  as  all  girls  should.  You  dwell 
on  natural  human  tendencies  until  you  magnify 
them  into  wrong  doings.  That  is  the  history  of 
saints." 

"Saints!"  she  approached  him  lest  even  the  air 
surrounding  them  should  hear.  "You  don't  know." 
She  drew  in  a  deep  breath  as  if  preparatory  to  confess 
ing  a  series  of  Borgian  murders.  "You  don't  under 
stand.  Lucy  Yates  taught  me  to  dance  and  I  love 
it.  We  dance  at  her  house.  I  like  Cooper's  novels 
even  better  than  I  do  Pilgrim's  Progress.  We  don't 
have  music  in  our  church,  but  I  adore  it — even 
Catholic  music.  I  stand  at  the  window  sometimes 
during  service  and  feel  as  if  I'd  like  to  sing  and 
dance  in  the  streets." 

He  watched  the  play  of  her  great,  burning,  dark 
eyes  as  she  recounted  her  pathetic  efforts  to  live 
more  fervently,  to  transcend  the  limits  of  her  nar 
row  life.  She  was  too  tempestuous  for  the  every- 


ESTHER  DAMON  115 

day  tranquil,  shaded  village.  Even  in  the  castaway 
garments  of  Mrs.  Simpkins,  as  she  stood  before 
Orme,  he  could  close  his  eyes  and  see  her  a  great 
tragic  actress,  on  an  ancient  throne,  inspiring  a 
splendid  cause.  But  here  she  was  in  Freedom. 
Could  a  bottle  hold  a  cyclone  ?  How  was  he  not  to 
lose  sight  of  the  obligation  he  felt  toward  her  mother, 
and  yet  with  honesty  to  counsel  her?  Lucy  Yates 
would  have  been  a  simple  case.  Why  wasn't  she 
Lucy  Yates?  "Don't  trouble  yourself  about  these 
trivial  things,"  he  finally  said.  "Even  your  God 
never  thinks  of  them.  They  are  no  more  to  Him 
than  the  shavings  are  to  us  cabinet-makers  when 
we  make  a  set  of  furniture.  Life  is  much  bigger 
than  the  shavings.  It  will  be  for  you." 

"And  you  know  so  much  too — Dr.  Yates  says 
more  than  any  one  in  Freedom,"  she  said,  visibly 
awed.  "Tell  me  again  you  believe  I  shall  really  go 
to  college,  Mr.  Orme." 

He  could  not  connect  her  with  the  definite  disci 
pline  of  Mount  Holyoke,  but  he  answered:  "I  hope 
you  will;  and  that  your  parents  will  give  their  con 
sent." 

She  drew  a  long  breath.  "May  I  begin  work 
to-day?" 

"Any  time  you  wish.  If  you  will  come  with  me 
to  Mrs.  Brewster's  I'll  explain  what  there  is  to  do. 
The  carpets  are  woven  there;  but  as  soon  as  we 
get  space  the  work  will  all  be  done  here  on  the  hill." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Brewster."  Esther  hesitated.  "She 
is  the  Universalist  lady." 

"Do  you  object  to  going  there?" 


n6  ESTHER  DAMON 

"No,  I  don't  mind,"  she  slowly  returned.  "I 
was  thinking  of  how  she  scolded  the  last  time  my 
mother  went.  I  don't  know  that  I  shall  blame  her 
if  she  is  very  angry  with  me  for  coming.  Of  course 
she  doesn't  understand  that  Jesus  tells  my  mother 
to  pray  for  her.  I'm  afraid  Mrs.  Brewster  thinks  we 
believe  we  are  better  than  others;  but  I  know  we 
are  all  poor  sinners." 

For  the  second  time  Orme  perceived  Esther 
Damon  beautifully  trying  to  be  nice  to  him  about 
his  moral  delinquencies.  He  stopped  in  the  road 
as  they  were  making  the  descent  to  the  village. 
"Your  prayers  didn't  vex  me.  They  were  so  many 
kind  thoughts  coming  when  I  needed  them.  I've 
always  been  grateful  to  you." 

"Were  you?"  she  answered.  "I'm  glad.  Peo 
ple  get  so  vexed  when  we  pray  for  them.  Some 
times  I'm  afraid  not  to  go  the  way  my  mother 
wants  me.  She's  so  sure  Jesus  is  on  her  side  that 
He  must  be." 

"No  prayers,  to-day,"  Mrs.  Brewster  called  through 
the  green  screen  door  when  she  saw  Esther.  "I'm 
busy." 

Robert  explained  as  he  opened  the  door  for  the 
girl  to  pass  before  him,  "Miss  Damon  has  come  to 
sew  rags  and  learn  weaving  from  you." 

"Well,  land  sakes,  have  you?"  the  widow  said 
with  one  of  her  infrequent  smiles.  She  even  rose 
from  her  loom.  "I'm  glad  Americans  ain't  all  dead 
or  ashamed  to  work  in  this  fly-away,  scatter-brained 
town.  What's  your  name?" 

"Esther." 


ESTHER  DAMON  117 

Orme  lingered  to  interpret  gently  to  the  girl  the 
gruffness  of  Mrs.  Brewster.  He  watched  the  widow 
show  her  pupil  how  to  "fill  the  loom,"  "trip  the 
treadle,"  and  "throw  the  shuttle."  Then  in  a  daze 
of  delight  he  again  climbed  the  hill.  Perhaps  there 
would  be  months  like  this  afternoon. 

There  was  an  unusual  stir  at  his  gate.  Men 
were  unloading  red  plush,  machine-turned,  black 
walnut  furniture  from  a  lumber  wagon.  Who  was 
hoaxing  him?  He  hastened  into  the  cabin.  The 
living-room  was  a  chaos  of  chairs  and  tables.  In 
the  south  wing  was  Alice  directing  Carter  in  the 
arrangement  of  her  belongings.  Red  plush  furni 
ture  discorded  with  his  beautiful,  simple  handicraft 
no  more  than  Alice's  soul  with  his. 

"You're  right,  Robert,"  the  wife  said  amiably, 
holding  out  her  hand.  "It's  foolish  to  live  apart  in 
a  village  like  Freedom.  I've  decided  not  to  be 
angry  any  longer.  Brother  Trask  says  we  should 
make  the  best  of  marriage.  This  is  the  room  you 
intended  for  me,  isn't  it?"  He  could  not  answer. 
"Of  course  this  isn't  like  pa's  house,  but  I  can  stand 
it  with  this  new  furniture.  I  had  it  shipped  from 
Buffalo.  Isn't  it  stylish?" 

Orme  leaned  heavily  against  the  wall.  He  tried 
to  keep  from  speaking.  He  feared  he  should  turn 
her  out  of  doors  and  pitch  after  her  the  red  plush 
furniture.  Now  he  knew  he  had  never  grown  until 
he  was  free.  He  realized  in  the  old  days  he  had 
often  gone  to  Clancy's  to  escape  her  irritating  tongue 
and  their  life  barren  of  comradeship.  There  was 


u8  ESTHER  DAMON 

no  fine  living  with  her.  Should  he  allow  her  to  come 
back  and  check  his  development — this  wife  who  stood 
between  him  and  all  he  desired?  No  such  difficult 
question  had  yet  presented  itself.  His  new  con 
science  asked,  was  his  growth  to  be  selfish?  Had 
he  no  responsibility  to  her? 

"Yes,  Alice,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  mean,  this  is 
the  room  I  built  for  you.  ...  I  hope  you  will  be 
happy  here,  and  that  we  shall  get  on  better."  He 
could  utter  no  other  words. 

He  turned  into  the  living-room.  Stumbling  over 
the  furniture  he  crossed  to  the  mantel  and  took  up 
the  little  picture  made  by  Esther  Damon.  During 
the  winter  he  had  kept  it  there  where  the  firelight 
might  play  on  it.  He  placed  the  card-board  on  the 
table.  To  his  horror  he  recalled  it  was  his  wedding 
anniversary.  Only  to  turn  back  the  calendar  and 
erase  that  day!  Would  the  afternoon  never  pass? 
He  entered  his  own  room,  then  went  out  to  the  work 
shop.  Temptation,  stiletto  in  hand,  dogged  him. 
He  rejoined  the  cabinet-makers  and  began  planing  a 
table. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ESTHER  stepped  into  Wherritt's  store  with  her 
first  five  dollars  earned  as  a  weaver.  For  a  month 
she  had  lived  for  this  golden  moment.  Hitherto 
Wherritt's  had  been  a  place  of  forbidden  splendors. 
Now  the  beautiful  new  green  bank-note  was  a  talis 
man  of  admission  to  its  marvels.  It  was  like  sor 
cery  that  she,  Esther  Damon,  should  buy  a  bottle  of 
that  perfume  in  the  show-case.  She  sprayed  her 
handkerchief.  The  romance  was  prolonged.  She 
had  only  to  ask  for  some  of  the  long-coveted  lavender 
ribbon,  and  it  became  her  very  own.  Already,  she 
saw  the  bows  she  should  wear  at  her  throat  like 
those  of  Lucy  Yates.  The  fashion  had  been  brought 
to  Freedom  by  that  city  girl,  the  guest  of  the  Clancys, 
who  was  the  local  feminine  standard  of  luxury. 
A  pair  of  white  lace  mittens  and  a  lavender-bordered 
pocket  handkerchief  took  their  place  among  Esther's 
possessions.  So  little  did  the  minister's  daughter, 
in  her  life  of  penury,  know  of  the  purchasing  power 
of  money,  that  she  was  astonished  when  told  by  Ira 
Wherritt  that  she  might  still  have  the  lace  cuffs  and 
one  of  those  wide  collars.  The  lace  was  coarse  and 
of  common  weave;  but  to  Esther's  starved  senses  it 
was  a  filmy,  fairy  web.  The  magic  wand  disap 
peared  in  the  Wherritt  till.  The  door  of  the  palace 

119 


120  ESTHER  DAMON 

of  witchery  was  closed.  To  such  an  extent  had  the 
girl's  nature  been  checked  that  she  went  homeward 
pale  with  joy  at  the  thought  of  her  first  little  lies 
secreted  in  her  pocket. 

Mrs.  Damon  sat  by  the  sitting-room  table,  reading 
a  religious  journal.  On  Esther's  arrival  she  put 
aside  her  paper  and  removed  her  spectacles  to  re 
ceive  her  daughter's  embrace.  At  one  time  the  good 
lady  had  worn  gold-cased  glasses;  but  she  felt  that 
her  Heavenly  Father  had  severely  chastised  her  for 
such  self-indulgence  and  vanity.  Now  her  spectacles 
were  encased  in  nickel.  Always  when  she  spoke  her 
countenance  showed  a  sweetly  human,  sad  smile. 
Caressing  her  daughter's  hand,  she  said,  "  I  hope 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Yates  are  well." 

"Yes,  mother,  very  well."  On  her  return  from 
work  Esther  had  stopped  a  moment  at  the  Yates'. 
Now  she  was  aware  she  had  done  so  to  be  able 
truthfully  to  answer  similar  questions.  She  seized 
the  opportunity  to  acquaint  her  mother  with  what 
was  in  her  mind  for  the  future.  "Lucy  is  going  to 
college  two  years  from  now.  Mr.  Orme,  who  is  pre 
paring  Irving,  is  to  teach  her." 

"Of  course  Lucy  will  enjoy  that,  dear  little  child," 
Mrs.  Damon  observed  indulgently.  "But  of  what 
value  is  mere  temporal  knowledge  ?  The  only  truths 
are  those  of  the  spirit." 

Esther  realized  that  her  mother  possessed  the 
peaceful  wisdom  of  the  spirit;  but  the  girl  felt  that 
such  knowledge  was  congenital  and  could  never  be 
hers.  "Perhaps  I'm  wrong,  mother,"  she  answered, 


ESTHER  DAMON  121 

"but  I  want  temporal  knowledge.  I'd  love  to  go  to 
college  with  Lucy.  I  can  be  just  as  good  a  Christian 
there  as  here."  To  forestall  objections,  she  quickly 
added,  "Why  not?  I'm  willing  to  work  my  way." 

"You  dreaming  child!"  Mrs.  Damon  chided. 
"How  can  a  poor  girl  like  you  work  your  way  through 
a  great  college?" 

"In  Mr.  Orme's  carpet  factory.  He  finds  it  hard 
to  get  women  to  weave.  Lucy  says  I  can  earn  lots 
of  money  there.  Every  afternoon  he  gives  a  little 
lecture.  If  I  weave  for  him  Lucy  thinks  he  will 
prepare  me  for  college  for  nothing." 

"I'm  glad  Mr.  Orme  is  earning  a  living." 

"Mother!"  the  girl  began;  but  Mrs.  Damon's 
forefinger  on  lips  signalled  silence. 

At  that  instant  both  saw  the  Reverend  Hezekiah 
Damon  on  his  old  black  horse  pass  before  the  side 
window  on  his  way  to  the  barn  where  he  kept  the 
faithful,  jaded  beast  which  for  years  had  carried  him 
from  one  charge  to  another  on  his  circuit.  Elder 
Damon  ministered  to  the  souls  of  Attica  and  Olivet 
as  well  as  Freedom.  He  rose  always  at  fouro'clock, 
Wesley's  hour;  cared  for  his  horse;  opened  his 
church;  swept  it;  cleaned  the  lamps.  For  his  mani 
fold  duties  his  salary  was  two  hundred  dollars  a  year. 
As  he  entered  the  sitting-room,  his  grave  lips  grimly 
compressed,  his  deep  gray  ascetic  eyes  set  under 
over- jutting  brows,  his  close-cropped  hair  suggested 
a  militant  priest  or  an  aging  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 
Though  the  preacher  had  been  absent  several  days, 
he  had  only  a  hand-clasp  from  his  wife  and  his 


122  ESTHER  DAMON 

daughter.  He  invited  affection  no  more  than  does 
the  Plymouth  Rock. 

"Well,  husband,"  asked  Mrs.  Damon,  as  he  hung 
up  his  hat,  "have  your  meetings  been  blessed  this 
week?" 

"Wonderfully  blessed,  Prudence,"  he  answered,  a 
smile  like  a  gleam  of  steel  showing  in  his  eyes  as  he 
took  possession  of  an  arm-chair  near  his  wife.  "I 
never  saw  anything  like  it.  Olivet  astonished  me 
even  after  my  forty  years'  experience.  Those  big, 
rough  logging-camp  workers  who  drink  hard  cider 
came  into  the  meeting.  They  shouted,  fell,  and  be 
came  Christians.  Old  members  like  brother  and 
sister  Jenkins  got  wonderfully  blessed." 

"Yes,  yes."  Mrs.  Damon  followed  her  husband's 
words  in  delight.  "Oh,  Hezekiah,  I  wish  this  rheu 
matism — I  know  I  violated  some  of  our  dear  Father's 
laws  or  I  shouldn't  be  afflicted  with  it — I  wish  it 
hadn't  kept  me  at  home.  Then  Esther  and  I  might 
have  been  at  the  meeting."  She  glanced  at  her 
daughter  who  was  placing  some  peaches  on  the  oil 
cloth  covered  supper  table. 

"I  felt  you  and  Esther  were  with  me,  Prudence, 
especially  in  Attica.  Our  folks  in  Attica  are  pretty 
fashionable ;  but  the  whole  congregation  rose,  shouted 
and  sang.  It  reminded  me  of  the  old  days  of  Brother 
Cartwright's  time,  before  Methodists  became  so 
worldly.  But  here  in  Freedom,  where  I  preach  and 
pray,  where  you  exhort  wherever  you  find  a  sinner, 
I  feel  we  together  don't  reach  them.  I  get  so  dis 
couraged."  His  head  rested  on  his  hands.  In  this 


ESTHER  DAMON  123 

attitude  of  dejection  one  noted  the  pathetic  humility 
of  the  patched  black  alpaca  coat  and  the  white 
paper  collar. 

"No,  no,  Hezekiah,"  his  wife  consoled,  "you  must 
never  fail  in  courage.  We  can't  if  we  have  faith. 
Pray  always  for  faith." 

"Of  course  there  are  the  few  faithful  pilgrims,"  he 
said,  groping  for  comfort.  "But  look  at  the  back 
sliders.  Look  at  the  Nearbys  who  went  to  the 
Baptist  church;  and  the  Bares  who  went  to  the 
Congregationalist — all  enticed  by  church  socials,  do 
nation  parties,  oyster-suppers,  organs,  pew-renting, 
and  fine  clothes.  That's  how  they  want  to  worship 
God  in  Freedom.  The  Methodists  here  grow  fewer 
and  fewer  every  day." 

"Never  mind,  Hezekiah,"  the  wife  answered,  and 
he  saw  that  her  eyes,  the  fires  of  which  seemed  ex- 
tinguishable,  could  flash  as  in  youth.  "Let's  not 
feel  sorry  for  ourselves.  Rags  are  our  garments,  but 
we're  clothed  in  purple.  It  doesn't  matter  if  only 
one  of  us  is  left  to  talk  of  God ;  we  shall  still  be  the 
church.  Walls  and  roofs  don't  matter.  We'll  preach 
in  the  streets.  The  forest  shall  be  our  temples. 
Our  dome  shall  be  the  dome  of  Heaven.  The  walls 
of  our  church  shall  be  the  walls  of  the  universe." 
Mrs.  Damon  touched  his  hand.  "Hezekiah,  we'll 
save  Freedom  yet."  She  believed  all  her  husband 
believed,  but  with  a  passion  he  knew  not. 

"I  don't  know,  wife.  I  don't  know."  He  rose, 
went  to  the  window,  and  looked  out  on  the  unoffend 
ing  village  as  if  it  were  a  half-savage  wilderness 


124  ESTHER  DAMON 

which  it  was  his  mission  to  redeem.  "Sometimes," 
he  said,  "I  think  Freedom  is  the  wickedest  place  in 
the  world.  Sometimes  I  think  the  devil  has  Free 
dom." 

"Oh,  father,"  protested  Esther  as  she  indicated 
that  their  supper  was  on  the  table.  "Don't  say 
that." 

"Yes,  daughter,"  he  repeated,  "I'm  afraid  he 
has.  God  doesn't  hear  my  words  here.  I'd  gladly 
go  to  the  stake  to  break  up  this  ice  in  the  heart 
of  Freedom,  to  save  one  soul  here." 

To  Esther  her  father  was  a  spectacle,  a  great 
tragic  spectacle,  unintelligible,  but  moving.  Why 
was  she  so  deficient  in  his  kind  of  sensibility?  The 
pretty  little  lies  in  her  pocket  throbbed  against  Jier 
side.  Perfume  from  the  handkerchief  filled  her 
nostrils.  What  would  her  father  say  if  he  saw  her 
baubles?  In  renewed  alarm  she  wondered  if  the 
devil  had  her  as  well  as  Freedom. 

After  prayers  the  Damons  sat  before  the  cold 
supper  of  milk,  boiled  eggs,  and  peaches  which 
they  ate  from  Saturday  evening  until  Sunday  at 
the  setting  of  the  sun.  At  this  time  candor  urged 
Esther  to  share  with  her  family  her  hope  of  going 
to  college  and  to  gain  from  her  father,  especially, 
some  expression  of  approval.  "Father,"  she  began 
fearfully,  "do  you  mind  very  much — I'm  very 
anxious  to  know  what  you  think  of  it — if  I  try  to 
go  to  college?  I  can,  you  know — at  least,  I  think 
I  can." 

"Yes,  Hezekiah,"  interjected  Mrs.  Damon,  taking 


ESTHER  DAMON  125 

up  her  daughter's  theme,  "Esther  has  this  idea,  and 
you,  better  than  I,  can  show  her  its  folly.  She  hopes 
to  go  to  college  by  working  for  Robert  Orme,  who 
used  to  be  the  town  drunkard.  He  has  a  carpet 
factory  and  employs  weavers.  You  will  show 
Esther  that  even  if  she  could  spare  the  time  to  go  to 
college,  money  from  such  a  source  would  bring  her 
only  doubtful  happiness." 

"  Of  course,  Esther."  Her  father's  frown  and  fall 
ing  inflection  crushed  her  hope.  "Mr.  Orme  denies 
the  Word  of  God.  He  profanes  the  Sabbath.  He  is 
one  of  the  worst  men  in  the  village." 

"But  he's  better  now,"  Esther  argued  gently. 
"Don't  you  remember  he  gave  mother  that  portrait 
of  Wesley?"  Elder  Damon  coughed  and  looked  at 
his  wife. 

Mrs.  Damon  met  the  lunge.  "And  it  was  very 
kind  of  Mr.  Orme.  I  always  felt  that  much  good 
in  him  was  destroyed  by  his  life." 

Esther's  courage  was  high.  "He  doesn't  drink 
any  more.  He  has  built  such  a  pretty  house  himself. 
We  pass  it  as  we  go  to  the  lake  to  swim  and  row." 

"I'm  glad  he  doesn't  drink,  child,"  answered  Elder 
Damon  more  kindly.  "Very  glad." 

Esther  felt  she  was  gaining.  "And  he's  so  very 
good  to  every  one  that  works  for  him.  He  makes 
them  do  beautiful  things.  If  only  you  could  talk 
with  him— 

The  parents  stared  at  their  daughter.  Mrs.  Da 
mon  said,  "But  you  speak,  my  dear,  as  if  you 
knew " 


I26  ESTHER  DAMON 

Esther  was  all  confusion.  "Lucy  Yates  says  so. 
She  says  Mr.  Orme  has  made  a  new  man  of  Mr. 
Mearns,  the  carpenter — the  man  we  tried  to  get  to 
come  to  church." 

"Does  he  do  this  for  Jesus?"  Elder  Damon 
questioned. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Esther  reluctantly  admitted, 
"but  Dr.  Yates  likes  him,  and  Mr.  Orme  is  going 
to  prepare  Lucy  for  college.  Dr.  Yates  thinks  he's 
good  enough  for  that." 

"Dr.  Yates  goes  to  the  Baptist  church  about  three 
times  a  year."  The  minister's  ultimatum  con 
signed  the  physician  to  the  doom  of  all  idolaters. 

"Perhaps  if  you'd  allow  me  to  work  for  Mr. 
Orme,"  Esther  persisted,  "he  might  feel  sorry  he's 
so  bad  and  become  a  Christian." 

"No,  Esther,"  the  minister  returned.  "Robert 
Orme  works  for  this  world,  not  the  next.  He's  not 
good  enough  for  association  with  a  Christian  girl. 
You  must  choose  between  God  and  the  world." 
Although  the  minister  had  seen  his  own  uncushioned 
pews  emptied  by  the  more  modern  preachers,  never 
had  he  been  tempted  to  modify  his  strait-jacket  dis 
cipline. 

The  girl  leaned  over  the  table  in  her  eagerness. 
"Perhaps,  Father,  Mr.  Orme's  might  be  the  first 
soul  you  would  save  in  Freedom." 

Elder  Damon  was  inflexible.  "That  would  make 
me  very  happy,  Esther;  but  I  can't  allow  you  to 
work  for  an  infidel.  You  don't  need  a  college  edu 
cation  to  be  a  missionary.  People  never  talked  about 


ESTHER  DAMON  127 

missionaries  going  to  college  until  their  religion  lost 
some  of  the  fire  of  God.  Everything  you  need  to 
know  is  in  that  book."  He  indicated  the  Bible. 

Esther's  will  on  crucial  occasions  beat  its  wings  in 
protest  against  the  granite  force  of  her  father.  To 
day  it  was  to  her  gain  of  heredity  that  she  would  not 
abandon  her  desire. 

"Father,  perhaps,"  she  ventured,  "I'm  not  fit  to 
be  a  missionary." 

"Not  fit?"  He  sounded  the  question  as  if  she 
were  doubting  the  Bible.  "Not  fit?  If  you  are  not 
fit,  Esther,  who  is?" 

"It  isn't  your  fault  or  mother's,"  she  answered. 
"I  know  that  with  my  bringing-up  I  should  be 
ready,  but  one  reason  why  I  want  to  go  to  college 
is  to  think  over  and  test  my  belief  during  four  years." 

Elder  Damon  and  his  wife  were  possessed  of  clear, 
cloudless  faith.  Each  looked  at  the  other  as  if 
their  daughter  had  suddenly  become  a  very  terrible 
young  woman.  "You  are  not  sure  of  your  faith?" 
The  minister's  question  was  emphasized  as  if  the 
girl  had  already  said,  "I  am  not  sure  this  is  Esther." 
"Can  it  be,"  he  went  on,  "you've  been  tempted  by 
the  world?  Next  year  when  the  call  for  mission 
aries  comes,  is  there  anything  to  stand  in  the  way 
of  your  complete  self-surrender  to  duty?" 

The  girl  felt  the  presence  of  the  collar,  the  cuffs, 
the  bottle  of  perfume  in  her  pocket.  She  yearned 
to  cast  them  all  before  her  parents  and  to  confess  the 
shortcomings  which  menaced  her  future.  But  she 
could  not  give  up  youth.  In  silence  which  seemed 


128  ESTHER  DAMON 

like  disobedience  she  went  about  her  work  of  carry 
ing  dishes  into  the  kitchen.  Prayers  in  the  Damon 
home  that  evening  were  so  long  and  fervent  that 
Esther  herself  seemed  responsible  for  the  wrong 
doing  of  the  village. 

Sunday. 

Sunday,  spoken  in  whispered  emphasis.  Sunday 
in  Freedom.  Silence  at  the  Four  Corners.  A 
drowsy  silence,  holding  the  village  under  a  spell 
until  eight  o'clock  when  the  bell  of  the  little  Catholic 
church  summoned  Papists  to  mass.  Soon  from  east, 
west,  north,  and  south  farmers'  wagons  streamed  into 
town.  Every  one  was  so  solemn  that  even  the  trees 
seemed  pulpits.  At  half  after  ten  the  bells  of  the 
Baptist  and  Congregational  churches  tried  to  out- 
clang  each  other.  The  call  of  faith  alone  fore 
gathered  the  Methodists  in  their  humble  meeting 
house. 

First  came  the  Reverend  Hezekiah  Damon,  wear 
ing  the  familiar  black  alpaca  coat  and  brown  straw 
hat.  By  his  side  Mrs.  Damon  kept  slow  pace.  In 
the  little  reverential  procession  followed  Esther, 
heavenly-minded  and  demure  of  aspect — that  is, 
heavenly-minded  and  demure  as  possible  for  one  of 
her  height,  eyes,  and  hair.  In  her  glance  was  re 
pressed  martyrdom;  but  she  did  not  raise  her  gaze 
above  the  plane  of  the  psalm-book  and  the  Bible  she 
carried.  Mrs.  Damon  and  Esther  seated  themselves 
on  the  second  row  of  the  bare  benches  not  far  from 
the  large  stove,  in  which  there  was  no  fire.  The 
minister's  head  was  bowed  over  the  table  on  which 


ESTHER  DAMON  129 

lay  the  great  Bible.  Thus  the  three  waited  in  the 
empty  church. 

Soon  after  them  came  Brother  Simpkins — a  lanky, 
bow-legged  man  with  a  sparse  gray  beard,  fringing 
a  florid,  thin,  peaked  face.  Sister  Simpkins,  the 
female  counterpart  of  her  husband,  as  the  wife  of 
the  rich  man  of  the  church,  wore  a  Paisley  shawl 
and  a  glittering  bonnet  which  tied  under  her  chin. 
Hannah  Simpkins,  their  daughter — a  rounded,  podgy 
girl — was  like  a  changeling  in  the  family.  The 
Simpkinses  were  always  first;  but  subsequently  ar 
rived  Brother  and  Sister  Killit,  Sister  Fish,  Brother 
Grimes,  and  Brother  and  Sister  Thomson.  Carter, 
the  only  colored  man  of  the  village,  in  splendid  Sun 
day  apparel,  humbly  took  his  seat  in  the  rear  of  the 
church.  Before  Elder  Damon  raised  his  head  the 
incoming  footfalls  indicated  to  him  that  there  were 
ten  persons  besides  his  wife  and  daughter  in  the 
meeting-house.  This  was  the  smallest  number  to 
which  he  had  ever  preached. 

In  a  moving  voice,  the  minister  rose  and  delivered 
a  sermon  on  the  destruction  awaiting  those  of  little 
faith.  As  if  to  punctuate  the  words  of  her  husband, 
at  intervals,  Mrs.  Damon  looked  at  her  daughter. 
The  father's  glance  also  always  lingered  near  the 
girl.  Brother  Simpkins  and  Carter  shouted  "Amen ! " 
and  Sister  Killitt  clapped  her  hands  as  the  minister 
exceeded  his  own  eloquence.  Esther,  alone,  sat  un 
heeding,  present  only  in  the  body. 

In  the  little  church,  Elder  Damon,  in  spite  of  his 
self-appointed  poverty,  or  because  of  it,  was  canon- 


130  ESTHER  DAMON 

ized.  Among  the  Methodists,  Esther,  destined  as 
she  was  for  perilous,  foreign  missionary  work,  was 
deferred  to  as  the  princess  royal  of  a  dynasty  of  holi 
ness.  At  the  close  of  the  service  the  church-mem 
bers  gathered  about  their  pastor  and  his  family. 
Sister  Killitt  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes  as  she 
kissed  Esther.  In  a  voice  charged  with  sanctity  she 
said,  "Wasn't  that  a  grand  sermon,  Sister  Esther?" 

The  girl  gave  her  unvarying  Sunday  answer, 
"Yes,  father  always  preaches  beautifully." 

"How  blessed  you  are,"  went  on  Sister  Killitt, 
placing  her  hands  upon  Esther's  shoulders,  "to  have 
such  parents,  such  a  home,  always  to  have  the  fire 
of  God  poured  right  into  your  heart." 

When  similar  remarks  were  addressed  to  Esther, 
horrid  things  crowded  into  her  imagination  until 
revolt  seemed  imminent.  She  longed  to  stamp  her 
feet  and  cry  out  her  dislike  of  all  which  kept  her  a 
prisoner  in  this  black  pit  of  Sunday.  She  always 
shuddered  at  the  possibility  that  her  inclinations 
should  be  stifled,  her  nature  thwarted  until  she  made 
an  outbreak.  Though  the  Sunday-school  classes 
were  already  assembling  she  hurried  to  the  door  for 
air. 

There  was  a  slight  stir  in  the  street.  People  were 
leaving  the  houses  of  worship.  She  turned  in  the 
direction  of  the  Catholic  church  and  saw  Harry 
Clancy  lift  his  hat.  He  was  nearly  a  block  away, 
but  their  young  eyes  easily  travelled  the  distance. 
The  air,  the  trees,  the  sunlight,  the  wind,  the  earth, 
everything  separating  her  from  him  was  also  the 


ESTHER  DAMON  131 

exquisite  medium  which  related  them.  She  was  at 
the  age  when  she  was  mad  to  charm  and  to  be 
charmed.  An  electric  fluid  seemed  to  bathe  her. 
Sparks  of  fire  followed  one  another  through  her 
nerves.  Esther  flung  toward  Clancy  a  graceful, 
intimate  gesture  fraught  with  meaning. 

Her  joy  was  short-lived.  Again  she  looked.  Not 
only  Harry's  sister  at  his  side,  but  the  girl  in  the 
lavender  gown.  On  seeing  their  pleasing  apparel 
Esther  felt  that  each  thread  of  her  own  dull  gray 
dress — even  before  its  term  of  service  to  Sister 
Simpkins  the  stuff  had  cost  twelve  cents  a  yard  at 
Wherritt's — each  coarse  thread  accentuated  her  hu 
miliation.  Before  her  on  every  hand  were  girls  in 
lavender  dresses.  They  were  in  the  air,  swinging 
from  the  trees,  mocking  her.  If  only  once  she  could 
look  like  that  city  girl  in  the  lavender  gown  who 
spent  her  summers  at  the  Ivy  Green.  Esther  knew 
her  name  was  Stella.  What  a  lovely  name,  she 
thought, — so  light  and  graceful,  suited  to  poems. 
Her  own,  Esther,  was  fit  only  for  prose.  Harry 
would  drive  with  Stella  and  his  sister  in  the  after 
noon,  so  he  had  told  Esther,  only  because  she  could 
not  go  with  him.  No,  she  must  be  confined  in  that 
prison  of  piety,  her  home.  She  dragged  herself  back 
to  her  Sunday-school  class  which  she  taught  because 
she  was  the  minister's  daughter  and  because  she 
loved  children.  To-day  the  children  were  noisy  in 
their  corner.  They  laughed  and  talked  in  a  way 
that  would  have  scandalized  the  older  people  had 
the  teacher  not  been  Esther  Damon. 


132  ESTHER  DAMON 

The  preacher's  family  ate  no  dinner  Sundays, 
taking  only  a  cold  supper;  so  Esther's  work  con 
sisted  of  reading  aloud  from  the  Psalms  and  Pil 
grim's  Progress.  The  contents  of  these  books  were 
so  threadbare  to  the  girl  that  she  followed  her  own 
voice  only  in  subconsciousness.  After  an  hour  de 
voted  to  this  duty,  she  patched  together  an  excuse 
about  a  headache.  In  reality,  so  splendid  was  her 
physical  endowment  that  she  had  never  known  pain 
nor  a  sense  of  fatigue;  but  she  was  permitted  to  go 
upstairs. 

Esther  passed  through  the  dark,  windowless  hall 
into  her  room  and  closed  the  door.  She  was  free. 
Her  pillow  was  her  treasure  chest,  and  therefrom  she 
drew  her  precious  purchases;  the  perfume,  the  lace 
collar  and  cuffs,  the  silk  mittens.  At  first  she 
touched  them  as  if  they  would  vanish  if  breathed 
upon.  Then  impressively  she  ranged  them  before  her 
on  the  bed.  They  were  all  hers,  quite  hers,  earned 
with  her  own  nimble  fingers.  Each  object  should  help 
make  her  more  like  the  girl  in  the  lavender  dress. 

Presently  she  viewed  herself  in  a  little  broken  tri 
angle  of  a  mirror  tacked  to  the  wall,  a  gift  from 
Lucy  Yates.  Lucy,  a  year  younger  than  Esther,  had 
already  ceased  dressing  her  hair  like  a  school-girl. 
Esther  would  arrange  hers  like  a  woman.  She  used 
to  hate  her  hair.  Now  she  loved  its  great  billows. 
Harry  said  it  was  beautiful.  There  it  was  in  his 
note  she  drew  from  her  pillow.  "  Your  hair  is  beauti 
ful.  You  are  beautiful.  I  love  you." 

When   she   read   the   last   sentence   she   stopped 


ESTHER  DAMON  133 

brushing  her  hair  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 
How  she  had  always  hungered  for  words  like 
those!  How  she  had  envied  Lucy  her  facile  con 
quests  !  School-boys  had  showered  Lucy  with  candy 
mottoes,  "I  love  you,"  "Kiss  me,"  and  followed 
them  with  notes  of  adoration.  Lucy  had  only  to 
shake  her  curls  to  enslave  even  the  school-master. 
The  day  before  the  sex-experienced  Lucy  had  said 
Harry  was  the  best-looking  boy  in  Freedom.  She 
wished  she  could  invite  him  to  her  next  party.  It 
was  nice  of  Lucy,  Esther  reflected.  People  were  so 
unchristian  to  Harry.  He  couldn't  help  being  the 
son  of  the  tavern-keeper  any  more  than  she  could 
help  being  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman.  Harry 
didn't  look  like  the  tavern.  He  grew  handsomer 
every  day,  and  he  went  to  the  city  so  much  that  his 
manners  were  like  the  "world."  Above  all,  he  was 
Esther's  romance.  That  was  the  great  thing  for 
her  starved  soul. 

Again  she  took  up  the  brush,  twisted  the  soft  coils 
about  her  head  until  they  royally  crowned  her  and 
formed  a  classic  line  of  which  she  was  unaware.  She 
bathed  her  hands  and  face  in  violet  water  until  she 
lost  sensibility  to  the  perfume.  But  her  great  final 
rite  was  putting  on  the  lace  collar.  Before  adjusting 
the  collar  to  her  fine,  strong,  white  neck,  where  she 
fastened  it  with  a  bow  of  lavender  ribbon,  she  stroked 
it  as  a  dear,  human  thing.  Why  wouldn't  the  rib 
bon  expand  into  a  dress  ?  After  pinning  on  her  cuffs 
Esther  felt  like  a  different  being.  She  wasn't  queer- 
looking  any  more. 


134  ESTHER  DAMON 

Esther  did  not  realize  that  her  usual  severity  of 
apparel  emphasized  her  beauty,  nor  that  she  was 
always  splendid  when  unornamented.  Nor  did  she 
know  that  for  her  to  accept  the  silly  mode  of  Free 
dom  was  to  detract  from  her  appearance.  She  had 
the  aspect  of  having  crawled  into  clothes  too  small 
for  her,  but  she  rejoiced  in  her  dazzling  "best" 
which  was  her  worst.  Wouldn't  Harry  like  her  so? 
If  only  he  could  see  her!  Her  face  clouded.  He  was 
with  that  city  girl  who  was  fair  and  slender.  To  be 
like  Stella,  or — to  see  Harry  to-morrow  at  the  lake 
and  hear  him  say  again  that  no  one  was  so  beautiful 
as  she! 

Summoned  by  her  mother  to  prepare  the  homely 
supper,  Esther  hastily  concealed  her  belongings. 
Once  more  downstairs  in  the  atmosphere  of  piety 
she  was  troubled  that  she  knew  no  sense  of  sin  for 
her  manner  of  passing  the  afternoon.  Wasn't  there 
something  wrong  in  one  who,  without  turmoil  of  con 
science,  could  joy  in  vanity  and  secret  love  on  a 
Sabbath  ?  God  and  Heaven  had  become  stale  theo 
logical  phrases;  but  Harry  Clancy  was  a  reality. 
What  did  she  lack? 

As  Esther  went  about  her  work,  Elder  Damon, 
who  was  talking  with  his  wife,  paused  to  observe  his 
daughter  and  to  whiff  the  air.  "What  is  the  matter, 
Hezekiah?"  Mrs.  Damon  asked. 

Dumb,  he  sat  staring  at  Esther.  Finally,  as  the 
girl  deposited  a  bowl  of  rice  on  the  table,  she  herself 
put  the  inquiry,  "What  is  the  matter,  Father?" 

"Esther,  come  here,"  he  said  gravely.    Under  his 


ESTHER  DAMON  135 

scrutiny  the  girl  showed  puzzled  eyes.  She  won 
dered  if  they  had  found  Harry's  letter-box  under  the 
front  steps.  "Daughter,  what  have  you  put  on 
yourself  this  afternoon?" 

"Nothing,  Father." 

"Nothing,  Esther?  You've  something  you 
shouldn't  have,"  he  insisted  menacingly. 

Had  she  forgotten  to  hide  the  collar?  Esther's 
quick  fingers  sought  her  throat.  No,  the  collar  was 
concealed.  "I  think  you  are  mistaken,  Father." 

"You're  not  given  to  double-dealing,  Esther." 
The  minister  marked  each  word  with  a  gesture  of 
his  forefinger.  "In  Buffalo,  where  I  once  went  to 
attend  the  annual  conference  of  our  ministers,  I 
met  a  woman  in  the  streets,  a  beautiful,  bepainted 
woman — not,  I  am  afraid,  a  likely  one.  When  I 
passed  her  she  smiled.  Her  perfumery  smelled  like 
your  clothing." 

Mrs.  Damon  seconded  with  quaint  simplicity, 
"Esther,  I  think  I  smell  perfumery,  too,  but,"  she 
concluded  with  a  plaintive  plea  for  denial  of  the 
suspicion,  "you  haven't  any,  have  you,  Esther?" 

"Yes,  mother,  I  have,"  Esther  grudgingly  con 
fessed. 

"At  least,  Hezekiah,"  said  Mrs.  Damon  sadly,  "we 
can  be  thankful  our  daughter  hasn't  deceived  us. 
I  was  a  naughty  child  myself." 

"It's  only  the  perfume  of  violets,"  resisted  the 
girl.  "  God  made  them.  I'm  sure  He  doesn't  care  if 
I  smell  them  or  use  the  perfume  from  them." 

Elder  Damon  raised  his  hands  when  his  daughter 


136  ESTHER  DAMON 

set  up  her  own  judgment.  "And  do  you  pretend," 
he  asked  of  her,  "to  understand  what  God  wants?" 
He  spoke  to  his  wife  in  alarm.  "Prudence,  this  is 
what  conies  of  allowing  Esther  to  associate  with 
children  of  the  world."  His  severest  attention  was 
fixed  on  his  daughter  when  he  asked,  "Doesn't  God 
care  about  how  his  children  pass  the  Sabbath? 
Do  you  believe  He  gives  no  heed  when  a  Christian 
girl  besmears  herself  with  perfume  until  she  smells 
like  the  wicked  women  of  the  streets  of  Buffalo? 
If  this  is  what  you  say,  Esther,  what  is  to  be  ex 
pected  of  Freedom?"  He  clenched  his  hand  as  he 
added  to  Mrs.  Damon,  "I  tell  you,  Prudence,  there's 
something  corrupting  in  the  very  air  of  the  place." 

"Father,"  Esther  timidly  put  forward,  "isn't  it 
possible  that  the  reason  why  your  church-members 
go  to  the  Congregationalists  and  Baptists  is  that  you 
ask  too  much  of  them?  People  can't  be  happy 
restrained  every  minute.  If  you  didn't  expect  so 
much  of  your  congregation,  would  it  fall  away?" 

For  the  first  time  Esther  questioned  Elder  Da 
mon's  tough  exactions  and  he  demanded,  "What are 
you,  anyway,  Baptist,  Unitarian,  or  Universalist  ? 
No  wonder  you  were  defending  an  infidel  last  night, 
and  you  want  to  work  for  him.  The  devil  has  had 
many  guises  in  the  past  two  thousand  years.  I 
know  him.  First  he  talks  Catholic  style,  then 
Episcopalian  style,  then  Unitarian  style,  then  infidel 
style — something  fixed  up  fine  and  easy  to  suit  every 
body.  No  rough-hewn  cross  of  Christ  for  him,  but 
a  nice,  pretty  cross  of  gold.  And  the  devil  gets 


ESTHER  DAMON  137 

along  very  well  if  you  reckon  him  by  the  big  grand 
churches — temples  of  idolaters  where  knowledge, 
success,  rich  men,  everything  but  God  is  wor 
shipped.  But  I'll  never  give  in  to  him.  It's  boiled 
down  to  this."  The  minister  smote  the  table  in 
emphasis.  "Are  you  for  Christ  or  against  Him? 
Are  you  with  Jesus  when  it's  costly,  unpopular,  and 
uncomfortable?  Let  other  churches  compromise 
with  the  devil  and  have  their  rich  men  and  their 
great  folk.  My  little  meeting-house  will  see  them 
go  to  pieces.  We  have  the  religion  of  the  fishermen 
and  the  tent-makers — nothing  else,  because  nothing 
but  the  religion  of  Paul  and  Silas  will  last."  The 
old  man  voiced  all  the  tragic  pathos  of  one  who 
bears  the  ragged,  faded  standard  of  a  lost,  mag 
nificent  faith.  Turning  to  him  Esther  took  his 
hand.  He  looked  up  at  her  and  asked,  "Are  you 
going  to  be  for  the  devil,  or  against  him?" 
"You'll  always  find  me  where  you  are,  Father." 


CHAPTER  XII 

ELDER  DAMON  and  his  wife  had  just  returned 
from  the  camp-meeting  when  Brother  Simpkins 
knocked  timidly  at  the  door  of  the  parsonage. 
Brother  Simpkins  for  the  most  part  maintained  the 
Methodist  church  in  Freedom;  but  he  was  always 
poor  in  spirit  in  the  presence  of  the  man  of  God. 
To-day  the  minister  himself  received  the  visitor. 
Brother  Simpkins  flushed  as  the  preacher's  eyes  fell 
on  the  offerings  with  which  the  layman  was  bur 
dened.  "Well,  well,  Brother  Simpkins,"  exclaimed 
the  pastor.  "If  this  isn't  just  like  you  and  Sister 
Simpkins!  Peaches!"  There  was  a  basket  of  them 
on  Brother  Simpkins'  arm.  "The  first  of  the  season, 
I'm  sure.  Wife,"  he  called  to  Mrs.  Damon  who 
came  from  the  kitchen  wiping  her  hands,  "here  are 
the  eggs  we  prayed  for  this  morning."  The  min 
ister  often  seemed  to  regard  his  Maker  as  a  benevo 
lent,  wholesale  supply-merchant. 

"Brother  Simpkins!"  said  Mrs.  Damon,  shaking 
the  hand  of  the  parishioner  who  was  grinning  from 
his  own  joy  in  that  of  the  minister  and  his  wife. 
"And  a  roll  of  butter!  This  is  too  much!  You 
and  Sister  Simpkins  certainly  are  the  stronghold  of 
the  Lord.  What  should  we  do  without  you?" 

"It  ain't  much,"  returned  the  embarrassed  brother, 

138 


ESTHER  DAMON  139 

"  but  it's  all  fresh  from  the  farm."  Brother  Simpkins 
mopped  his  head  with  a  large  red  handkerchief, 
coughed,  blew  his  nose,  and  seated  himself  on  the 
edge  of  one  of  the  cane-bottomed  chairs. 

"I  was  sorry  not  to  see  you  and  Sister  Simpkins  at 
the  Attica  camp-meeting,"  said  Mrs.  Damon.  "We 
were  very  blessed." 

"Praise  the  Lord,  Sister,"  returned  the  brother. 
"We  were  dreadful  sorry  we  couldn't  go;  but  it  was 
my  busy  time  and  I  have  such  trash  for  hired  men 
that  I  have  to  keep  an  eye  on  'em  every  minute." 

"That  is  the  tempter,"  admonished  the  clergyman. 
"Let  God  farm  for  you." 

"I  would,  Brother  Damon,  if  in  your  travels  you'd 
find  me  a  good  hired  man."  Brother  Simpkins 
laughed.  He  liked  his  own  wit.  "But  Brother 
Damon,"  he  continued,  after  a  labored  clearance  of 
the  throat,  "I  didn't  come  over  for  that.  Your 
folks  and  my  folks  have  always  got  along  together 
first-rate.  And  if  friends  have  got  anything  to  say 
to  each  other,  don't  go  beating  about  the  bush,  but 
out  with  it,  I  say." 

Hereupon  Brother  Simpkins  halted  in  advocacy 
of  direct  motion,  twirled  his  hat  and  leaned  back 
against  the  wall  to  place  himself  in  equilibrium. 
In  large  alarm  the  minister  and  his  wife  followed 
the  visitor's  odd  conduct.  Elder  Damon  wondered 
if  Brother  Simpkins  had  come  to  suggest  that  the 
church  buy  an  organ.  Already  the  answer  was  in 
the  preacher's  mind.  After  an  awkward  pause  the 
brother  collected  himself  and  went  on  with  diffi- 


140  ESTHER  DAMON 

culty:  "I  told  Susan  I  didn't  believe  in  beating 
about  the  bush  or  backbiting,  and  I  was  coming 
over  here  to  ask  you  right  out  if  you,  Brother  Da 
mon,  ain't  violating  church  discipline.  Ain't  you 
comin'  out  for  showy,  gaudy  dress?  Ain't  you 
gettin'  too  high-toned  for  the  Methodists?" 

For  nearly  forty  years  the  preacher  had  held  the 
scales  of  judgment.  Now  discovering  himself  the 
object  weighed,  brought  a  prompt  exclamation  of 
surprise.  Mrs.  Damon,  however,  unfailing  in  daily 
scrutiny  of  her  own  life,  meekly  answered:  "I  don't 
blame  you,  Brother  Simpkins.  I  know  the  Lord 
doesn't  entirely  approve  of  mahogany  horse-hair  fur 
niture.  Shall  I  sell  mine  and  give  the  proceeds  to  the 
heathen?  I  kept  it  because  it  belonged  to  my  dear 
mother.  She  was  an  excellent  woman  even  if  she  was 
an  Episcopalian." 

"No,  Sister,"  replied  Brother  Simpkins,  "it  ain't 
horse-hair  furniture.  That's  all  right.  Mebbe  you 
think  I'm  an  interferin'  old  fellow;  but  it's  Esther. 
Folks  are  waggin'  their  tongues  about  Esther." 

Elder  Damon  and  his  wife  looked  at  each  other. 
Disturbed  and  uneasy,  the  minds  of  both  flew  to  the 
late  revelation  concerning  Esther.  After  an  interval 
the  minister's  thoughts  steadied.  He  offered  an  ex 
planation  which  he  felt  was  a  criticism  of  his  own 
life.  "Yes,  Brother  Simpkins,  Lucy  Yates  did  give 
Esther  some  perfumery.  My  wife  and  I  prayed 
about  it,  and  Esther  won't  use  it  again.  Perhaps 
you  recall,  Brother,  that  sometimes  young  people  are 
very  wilful." 


ESTHER  DAMON  141 

"Then  I  guess  it's  gone  from  perfumery  to  worse 
things."  By  softening  his  tone  the  visitor  endeavored 
to  absorb  the  force  of  the  shock.  "It's  wearing  lace, 
bows  of  ribbon,  silk  mitts.  My  daughter  Hannah 
ain't  allowed  to  wear  such  things.  It's  looking  proud 
and  worldly.  Do  you  think  a  Methodist  minister's 
daughter  ought  to  do  that?" 

"Oh,  Brother  Simpkins,"  Mrs.  Damon  sighed  in 
glad  relief,  "then  it  must  all  be  a  mistake.  I  can 
vouch  for  Esther.  She  hasn't  one  of  these  things." 

Brother  Simpkins  shook  his  head  with  great 
solemnity.  "I  wish  there  was  some  mistake  about 
it,  but  there  ain't.  I  seen  her  myself.  First  Susan 
seen  her.  Women  always  do  see  things  first.  And 
then  I  seen  her.  It  was  hard  to  believe  my  own 
eyes." 

"Are  you  quite  sure?"  questioned  Mrs.  Damon. 
"I've  never  seen  them.  Where  could  she  get  such 
things?" 

"Susan  says  she  gets  them  at  the  infidel's,"  ex 
plained  Brother  Simpkins.  "She  works  there  with  all 
that  trash,  them  godless  folks." 

"Esther  did  speak  about  it  a  long  time  ago,"  ad 
mitted  Mrs.  Damon,  "but  I  had  forgotten." 

"Yes,  she  weaves  carpets  at  that  Universalist's, 
Mis'  Brewster's.  Everyone's  talking  about  it  be 
cause  they  think  you  know  it.  Brother  Killit's  mad 
clean  through.  He  thinks  you  think  we  don't  pay 
you  enough." 

"I  can't  say  I  blame  them,"  Mrs.  Damon  con 
ceded. 


1 42  ESTHER  DAMON 

Brother  Simpkins  was  emboldened  to  continue  his 
revelations.  "And  that  ain't  the  worst,  Brother  Da 
mon.  I  know  this  would  be  tattling  if  it  wasn't  for 
the  good  of  us  all." 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  me  I  can  bear  to  hear  the 
worst,"  said  the  minister  woefully,  "but  go  on, 
Brother.  We  are  all  given  strength  to  meet  each  day." 

"I  wish  Susan  was  here  to  tell  it,"  began  the 
visitor.  "It  ain't  in  my  line  to  carry  news.  I'd 
rather  take  a  lickin'  any  day;  but  Esther  walks  the 
streets  with  that  miserable,  billiard-playing,  Irish- 
Catholic,  Harry  Clancy." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Damon  piteously,  as  though 
seeking  to  ward  off  physical  hurt.  "You're  surely 
mistaken." 

"I  wish  I  was,  Sister,  but  I  ain't.  They  walked 
right  into  the  post-office  together — and  they  didn't 
take  no  notice  of  me,  just  as  though  they  were 
sweethearting." 

Hezekiah  Damon's  lips  set,  and  his  wife,  seeing  a 
storm  in  his  eye  remonstrated,  "No,  husband,  don't 
let  your  anger  control  you." 

So  absorbed  were  both  by  Brother  Simpkins'  nar 
rative  that  they  had  not  noticed  Esther  as  she  came 
up  the  steps.  Nor  had  they  known  of  her  approach 
until  the  door  opened  and  there  the  girl — perfumed, 
beribboned,  bemittened — in  every  detail  verified  the 
portrait  of  her  given  by  the  informant.  "Esther 
Damon ! "  exclaimed  the  minister.  "Esther  Damon ! " 
he  repeated  in  horror.  "So  what  all  the  brethren 
are  saying  about  you  is  true." 


ESTHER  DAMON  143 

Her  pale  face  was  held  so  high  that  she  seemed 
too  tall  for  the  small,  low-jointed  room.  Her  eyes 
glowed  with  dizzying  imhuman  happiness.  Her  lips 
were  scarlet,  as  if  fresh  from  kisses.  Everywhere  in 
her  aspect  was  the  abandonment  of  vagrant  liberty. 
"What  are  they  saying,  Father?" 

The  minister  confronted  his  daughter  with  bitter 
ness.  "They  say  you  look  as  you  look,  like  one  of 
those  Buffalo  women,  proud  and  worldly,  walking 
the  streets  in  gaudy  raiment." 

"I  know,"  she  answered  humbly,  "having  these 
ribbons  unknown  to  you  seems  like  telling  lies.  I 
hope  you'll  not  be  angry.  I  don't  want  to  deceive 
you.  I  came  home  to  show  myself  to  you  and  mother 
as  I  am." 

"As  you  are!"  the  minister  replied.  "Do  you 
recall  what  the  prophet  Isaiah  said  when  he  saw 
the  perfumed,  wanton-eyed,  mincing  women  of  Jeru 
salem  in  the  streets  ?  Isaiah  warned  that  he  would 
take  away  their  luxuries.  He  would  give  them 
branding  instead  of  beauty.  Isaiah  lived,  not  only 
in  Jerusalem,  but  in  Freedom.  He  knew  you, 
Esther.  He  saw  you  steeped  in  their  sins.  He  saw 
you  turn  away  from  your  missionary  work  and  be 
deck  yourself  with  the  finery  of  unbelievers,  your 
friends,  the  Catholics." 

"No,  husband,  don't  say  that,"  interposed  Mrs. 
Damon.  "Tell  me,  Esther,  at  least  this  isn't  true. 
You  didn't  walk  with  the  son  of  the  tavern-keeper, 
did  you?" 

"Yes,  mother,"  she  answered.  "  Every  one  else  was 
horrid  to  him,  and  so  I  walked  with  him." 


144  ESTHER  DAMON 

Mrs.  Damon  still  hoped  for  a  truth  not  for  her 
ears.  "Not  more  than  once,  dear  child?" 

"More  than  once,"  the  girl  confessed. 

"Why,  Esther,  I  don't  understand."  In  her  in 
genuousness  Mrs.  Damon  could  not  comprehend 
why  youth  strays  afoot  with  youth. 

"Because — "  The  girl  looked  toward  Brother 
Simpkins.  The  mighty  word  in  her  throat  would 
not  come. 

"Because  she  wished  to  make  her  father's  life  a 
mockery,"  bitterly  interpreted  the  minister. 

"No,  far  from  that,  .  .  .  but  because — "  "Dear 
me,"  thought  Esther,  "why  don't  they  know?  How 
can  they  help  seeing?  It's  in  my  brain,  in  my  heart, 
branded  in  flaming  letters,  'Love!'  I  should  think 
people  who  meet  me  in  the  street  would  read  it." 

"Oh,  Esther,"  the  mother  exclaimed,  her  face 
aglow,  "it's  because  you  desired  to  pray  for  Harry 
Clancy." 

"I  have  prayed  for  him,"  the  girl  admitted. 

"Now,  you  see,  Brother  Simpkins,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Damon,  her  voice  mellow  with  love,  "how  mistaken 
you  all  were.  Esther  only  wanted  to  pray  for  the 
young  man.  I  took  her  to  the  tavern  myself  to 
labor  for  those  lost  souls.  Esther  wished  to  have 
the  glory  of  converting  a  Catholic  before  she  goes  as 
a  missionary.  Brother,  you  must  tell  your  wife  not 
to  misjudge  Esther.  As  for  her  love  of  laces  and 
perfumery,  the  poor  child  inherited  that  from  me. 
I  was  full  of  vanity  and  folly  and  very  proud.  I 
didn't  like  to  be  a  Methodist.  I  thought  they  were 
queer  people.  I  went  to  a  dance  once  and  danced 


ESTHER  DAMON  145 

all  night  in  a  pink  silk  dress.  I  recall  how  hard  it 
was  to  give  up  my  tucks,  ruffles,  and  curls  to  Jesus. 
I  couldn't  part  with  a  black  silk  shawl.  The  Lord 
would  say  to  me  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  '  Pru 
dence,  are  you  going  to  give  up  the  black  silk  shawl 
to-day?'  I  couldn't  until  He  made  it  easy  for  me." 
She  took  her  daughter's  hand.  "You'll  put  all 
these  baubles  from  you,  won't  you,  dear  child?" 

The  girl  hesitated.  Then,  piece  by  piece,  she 
laid  the  beautiful  beloved  lies  upon  the  table,  seem 
ing  to  sunder  herself  from  living  parts  of  her  being. 

"  That's  a  good  Esther,"  approved  the  mother, 
"and  you'll  not  walk  with  that  young  Mr.  Clancy 
any  more  in  the  streets,  my  dear.  You  must  not  be 
misunderstood." 

"I'll  not  walk  with  him  in  the  streets,"  promised 
the  girl. 

"That's  right.  We'll  go  together  to  the  tavern  to 
pray  for  him."  Mrs.  Damon  turned  with  pride  to 
her  husband  and  Brother  Simpkins.  "You  see,  I 
understand  Esther  because  she's  so  much  like  me. 
She's  scarcely  her  father's  daughter  at  all." 

Indeed,  it  was  the  mother's  deep  fervor  which 
had  intensified  the  daughter's  nature,  colored  it  until 
it  became  a  rallying  point  of  fancy  and  stirred  the 
imagination.  But  Esther  was  more  than  her  mother. 
She  was  a  bold,  free  drawing  of  her  father,  from 
whom  came  her  vigor  and  strength.  "Our  daughter 
is  not  to  work  for  the  infidel  any  longer,"  Mrs. 
Damon  gently  assured  them.  "But  Mr.  Orme 
seems  a  kind,  well-meaning  man.  He  sent  me 


146  ESTHER  DAMON 

some  flowers  the  other  day  by  Carter.  I  can  make 
him  understand." 

Esther  was  now  prepared  for  any  extreme 
cruelty.  Making  a  queer,  wry  face  she  said,  "Very 
well.  Take  everything."  She  drew  several  bank 
notes  from  her  pocket.  "I  earned  these  this  summer 
weaving  carpet.  I  intended  to  put  them  toward  my 
college  expenses." 

The  currency  was  the  focus  of  six  startled,  aged 
eyes.  Mrs.  Damon,  looking  from  one  to  the  other, 
dominated  the  moment  with  her  question:  "What 
shall  we  do  with  the  money,  Hezekiah?  Brother 
Simpkins,  what  do  you  think?  Shall  we  give  it  to 
the  missionary  fund  or  return  it  to  Mr.  Orme?" 

Brother  Simpkins  surrendered  his  judicial  authority 
to  the  Elder  who  decided,  "The  money  must  go 
back  to  the  infidel.  Sweet  waters  cannot  come 
from  a  corrupted  fountain." 

"You  always  know  best,  Hezekiah,"  agreed  Mrs. 
Damon,  "and  these  furbelows  of  the  world" — the 
old  lady  glanced  at  the  pathetic  little  laces  and  rib 
bons  lying  on  the  table — "what  shall  we  do  with 
them?" 

"They  will  only  be  testimony  against  whoever 
wears  them,"  said  the  minister  sternly.  "Throw 
the  fripperies  into  the  fire."  Elder  Damon  took  up 
the  silken  lace  trifles  as  if  he  were  strangling  snakes 
and  swept  all  into  the  stove.  "Let  us  fast  to-night," 
he  said  on  his  return.  "Let  us  kneel  right  here  and 
pray  for  Esther."  He  seized  his  daughter's  wrist 
as  if  not  entirely  unconvinced  that  he  was  touching 


ESTHER  DAMON  147 

the  hand  of  a  witch.  "And  you,  Esther,  pray  for 
yourself,"  he  warned.  "Pray  for  the  casting  out  of 
the  devils.  These  depart  from  you  only  by  faith. 
Pray  for  your  life." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ALICE  ORME  had  been  unable  to  endure  the 
obloquy  of  being  the  only  woman  in  Freedom  not 
dwelling  under  the  same  roof  with  the  man  whose 
name  she  bore.  Robert  soon  discovered  that  she 
had  returned  not  to  him,  but  to  her  marriage  cer 
tificate.  This  was  as  he  desired.  Their  union  had 
been  a  physiological,  never  an  intellectual  nor  a 
spiritual  fact.  He  could  not  have  endured  make- 
believe  affection.  But,  fearing  lest  he  should  be 
unkind  to  her,  he  gave  Alice  elaborate  courtesy. 
Though  they  lived  under  the  same  roof,  they  were 
separated  by  mountain  ranges  of  thought. 

On  the  evening  following  the  revelations  in  the 
Damon  household  Orme  was  supping  with  the 
workmen  in  the  living-room.  Alice  was  seated  on 
the  porch.  She  refused  to  break  bread  with  those 
not  of  her  tier  of  life,  and  always  ate  before  the 
others.  When  she  saw  Mrs.  Damon  and  Esther  at 
the  gate  she  fled  to  call  Robert.  To  Alice,  Mrs. 
Damon  was  a  joke. 

Robert  left  his  companions  and  immediately  went 
forward  to  greet  the  visitors.  In  a  swift  approving 
glance  he  observed  that  Esther  had  returned  to  her 
former  simplicity  of  dress.  As  Mrs.  Damon  saw 
Robert,  still  young  even  with  his  graying  hair, 
overflowing  with  energy  and  enthusiasm,  she  held 

148 


ESTHER  DAMON  149 

out  her  hands  and  exclaimed,  "Why,  Mr.  Orme, 
you've  turned  back  the  clock  ten  years." 

Esther,  endeavoring  to  delay  the  inevitable  return 
of  the  money,  made  haste  to  begin,  "Mr.  Orme, 
won't  you  show  mother  the  house  and  workshop? 
I  want  her  to  see  what  you  have  done." 

Robert  led  his  guests  through  the  roomy  workshop 
with  its  wide  windows  and  pleasing  exterior,  and  ex 
plained  the  various  stages  of  manufacturing  furni 
ture.  With  such  applausive  grace  did  Mrs.  Damon 
comment  on  all  she  saw  that  Esther  gathered  hope. 
Perhaps  her  mother  would  allow  her  to  remain. 

When  they  came  back  to  the  garden  Mrs.  Damon 
stopped  to  look  at  the  flowers  and  congratulated 
Orme  on  choosing  this  site  for  his  home.  They 
went  into  the  cabin  from  which  the  workmen  were 
coming  out  and  Mrs.  Damon  said,  "These  log 
houses  are  so  nice,  Mr.  Orme.  I  lived  in  one 
when  I  was  a  little  girl.  This  takes  me  back  to  it." 

Each  moment  seemed  an  argument  for  Esther. 
She  explained  to  her  mother.  "People  come  here 
from  Buffalo  just  to  see  Mr.  Orme's  factory.  They 
all  say  this  is  going  to  be  a  big  institution.  Mr. 
Orme  gives  the  men  the  freedom  of  the  house,  and 
they  don't  care  to  go  to  the  tavern  any  more." 

Mrs.  Damon  walked  straight  to  the  fireplace,  where 
she  saw  on  the  mantel  the  little  picture  she  had 
given  Orme.  "Do  you  really  like  this?"  she  asked, 
taking  up  her  daughter's  work. 

"It's  very  interesting,"  Robert  answered,  somewhat 
confused. 


150  ESTHER  DAMON 

"  Why,  my  picture !"  Esther  exclaimed.  "I  didn't 
know  you  had  one."  The  door  to  Alice's  room 
closed  with  a  slam. 

"Mrs.  Damon  gave  it  to  me  the  day  I  was  at 
your  house,"  said  Orme  to  Esther.  "I  like  it  very 
much." 

"They  are  only  bits  of  colored  paper,"  apologized 
Esther.  "I  wish  I  had  oils  to  paint  with.  I  do 
see  pictures." 

"I  know  you  do,"  Robert  answered,  and  then 
said  to  Mrs.  Damon.  "Really  your  daughter  has 
great  talent  for  anything  she  can  do  with  color. 
She  dyes  remarkably  well.  Aunty  Brewster  is  de 
lighted  with  her." 

"Yes,  yes,  she  has  talent,"  sighed  Mrs.  Damon, 
"and  all  is  very  pleasant  here.  I  am  not  surprised 
she  was  happy  working  for  you." 

Robert  had  an  almost  feminine  sense  for  shades 
of  inflection.  He  immediately  seized  her  slight  in 
sistence  on  the  word  "was."  He  looked  from 
mother  to  daughter.  Esther's  countenance  entreat 
ing  him  to  intercede  for  her  disclosed  the  object 
of  their  visit.  "I  hope  she  is  still  working  with  us, 
Mrs.  Damon.  You  surely  have  no  objection?" 

The  mother's  smile  was  very  lovely  as  she  an 
swered,  "You  have  accomplished  much  and  I  am 
glad," — unkindness  ever  faltered  on  her  lips — "I 
am  afraid  it  wasn't  done  in  His  name,  my  friend. 
After  long  prayer  my  husband  and  I  have  decided 
that  our  daughter  must  not  be  where  He  is  not." 

"Please,    Mrs.    Damon,    don't    insist    on    that. 


ESTHER  DAMON  151 

Esther  is  an  excellent  weaver,  and  I  really  need  her. 
Consider  her  own  future.  She's  very  anxious  to  go 
to  college.  In  another  year  she'll  be  ready.  By 
working  here  during  her  vacation  she  can  take  her 
degree  at  Mount  Holyoke." 

Esther's  eyes  followed  those  of  her  advocate.  Her 
lips  almost  moved  with  his.  But  the  plea  broke  in 
vain  over  Mrs.  Damon.  When  the  older  woman 
spoke  her  mild  brown  eyes  reflected  generations 
which  had  lived  for  the  spirit.  "No,  worldly  wisdom 
will  avail  Esther  nothing.  Satan  is  always  lurking 
in  our  paths.  With  the  money  she  earned  here 
Satan  tempted  her  to  bedeck  herself  with  finery. 
Our  brethren  very  rightly  made  a  protest;  but  all 
will  be  forgiven  Esther  if  she  gives  back  the  money. 
We  came  to  return  it." 

None  of  the  revolt  testified  to  by  Esther's  counte 
nance  sounded  on  her  lips  when  at  the  instance  of 
her  mother  she  handed  the  bank-notes  to  Orme. 
In  a  struggle  for  self-mastery  she  went  down  the 
path  and  stood  by  a  rose-bush,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  lake  below  the  hill.  Burning  always  in  her 
brain  were  memories  of  those  scattered,  magical 
meetings  with  Harry  Clancy.  There  was  some 
rapture  and  ecstasy  in  life  after  all.  Her  great 
desire  for  education  might  be  crushed  by  that  maker 
of  destinies,  her  mother.  Her  years  of  hopes  and 
dreams  might  come  to  nothing.  Going  to  college 
would  have  involved  separation  from  Harry.  Now 
they  should  see  each  other  often.  Perhaps  loving 
him  would  be  better  than  going  to  Mount  Holyoke. 


152  ESTHER  DAMON 

So  ran  her  thoughts  as,  unconscious  of  what  she 
was  doing,  she  tore  the  roses  on  the  bush  to  pieces 
and  dropped  the  petals  on  the  ground. 

Orme,  in  deep  sympathy  for  Esther,  started  tow 
ard  her;  then  he  hesitated.  Her  mother  was  looking 
at  him.  "I  can't  keep  your  daughter's  money, 
Mrs.  Damon,"  he  said.  "After  all  the  work  she 
has  done,  it  is  too  horrible  to  take  it.  Don't  insist. 
She  is  greatly  distressed." 

"Of  course  the  poor  child  finds  it  hard,  Mr.  Orme. 
The  tempter  doesn't  make  things  easy.  God  will 
show  her  the  way  to  give  up  this  desire.  One  lives 
only  as  one  renounces.  Jesus'  life  was  renunciation." 

Robert  felt  the  need  of  plain  speaking.  Yet  how 
could  he  speak  plainly  to  this  dear,  unsophisticated 
old  lady  who  knew  so  much  about  Jesus  and  so 
little  about  her  daughter.  "I  don't  like  to  meddle 
in  your  family  affairs,"  he  began  awkwardly, 
"but  I  can't  feel  you're  acting  for  the  best.  I 
realize  I'm  very  remote  from  you  and  you'll  find 
it  hard  to  accept  my  judgment.  Yet  it  isn't  always 
the  bush  bearing  the  rose  that  understands  it,  is 
it  ?  I've  talked  with  Esther  a  good  deal  and  studied 
her  very  closely — she's  a  person  one  does  notice — 
and  her  whole  heart  is  centred  on  Mount  Holyoke. 
I've  an  idea — I  hope  you'll  pardon  me  for  express 
ing  it — that  you  ought  to  be  very  careful  about 
thrusting  her  into  a  life  she  doesn't  like.  I  shouldn't 
care  to  be  answerable  for  it  myself." 

"I  shall  do  nothing,  Mr.  Orme.  Our  dear  Lord 
performs  all." 


ESTHER  DAMON  153 

Robert  felt  as  if  his  head  had  suddenly  been 
thumped  against  the  stone  wall  of  superstition. 
Agreement  was  impossible  between  the  minister's 
wife  and  him.  Their  values  were  too  different. 
But,  after  an  interval  he  began  again,  "Does  Esther 
want  to  go  as  a  missionary,  Mrs.  Damon?" 

"Not  now,  but  she  will." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

Alarm  came  into  the  mother's  eyes.  "You  haven't 
spoken  against  it,  Mr.  Orme?" 

"Never  a  word,"  he  was  glad  he  could  answer, 
"but  you  know  nature  will  have  its  way.  Isn't  it  a 
violation  of  youth  to  send  her  into  that  hard,  dan 
gerous  life  in  Asia?  Perhaps  you  don't  realize  she 
is  beautiful.  She  hungers  for  beauty  of  every  kind. 
No  one  sees  beauty  so  intensely  as  the  beautiful, 
and  she  should  have  it." 

"Yes,  I  know,  I  am  greatly  blessed  in  having  her. 
I  thank  God  every  day  for  giving  her  such  outward 
fairness.  Her  beauty  will  aid  Jesus.  When  she 
speaks  of  heaven  to  the  poor  heathen  they  will  find 
it  easy  to  believe.  I  hope  I  don  t  inconvenience 
you,  Mr.  Orme,  by  taking  her  away,  but  Esther  is 
all  I  have.  I  have  consecrated  her  to  God.  If  ever 
you  meet,"  she  entreated  pathetically,  "I  may  rely 
upon  you  to  say  nothing  to  keep  her  from  Him." 

Orme  was  helpless  in  the  presence  of  her  faith. 
"Of  course!  Of  course!"  he  answered. 

"Thank  you,  my  friend,'  Mrs.  Damon  said, 
shaking  his  hand.  "I  do  wish  you  were  one  of 
His  disciples.  What  a  Christian  you  would  be!" 


154  ESTHER  DAMON 

Then  she  subjoined  in  almost  a  whisper,  "This 
evening  I  have  wondered  if  you  hadn't  the  spirit 
of  the  Master  without  realizing  it." 

"My  dear  lady,"  Robert  replied  with  a  dis 
couraged  smile,  "you  are  so  filled  with  it  yourself 
that  you  see  it  everywhere." 

"Oh,  no,  Carter  tells  me  of  you.  He  prays  for 
you.  Carter  is  one  of  my  boys,  you  know.  Won't 
you  come  to  church  sometime?  This  hill  is  too 
much  for  my  miserable  old  body  or  I  should  have 
been  often  to  see  you.  I  am  so  glad,"  she  added, 
her  eyes  suffused,  "that  you  keep  away  from  the 
tavern.  I  couldn't  be  happier  if  you  were  my  own 
son.  God  will  bless  you." 

On  the  way  to  the  gate  whither  Orme  escorted 
Mrs.  Damon,  she  met  Carter,  with  whom  she  shook 
hands.  "Praise  the  Lord,  Brother  Carter,"  she 
said. 

As  Robert  looked  at  Esther's  disconsolate  eyes  it 
came  over  him  that  she  saw  the  air,  the  great  heights, 
the  wide  distances  of  youth,  the  sun  only  as  some 
thing  in  which  she  had  no  share  save  through  the 
bars  of  her  prison.  He  made  one  more  effort  to 
save  her.  "Mrs.  Damon,"  he  called.  She  paused. 
"I  hope  you  understand  the  spirit  in  which  I  make 
the  suggestion.  I  have  found  a  way  for  Esther  to 
go  to  college  without  working  for  me." 

The  look  of  gratitude  that  came  into  the  girl's  eyes 
as  he  spoke  remained  with  him  always.  "You  have 
that  Wesley  portrait  at  your  house.  If  you  sell  it 
you'll  get  enough  for  her  college  expenses." 


ESTHER  DAMON  155 

Orme  now  knew  how  Mrs.  Damon  stared  at 
blasphemers.  "Sell  Wesley's  portrait!" 

"Yes,  I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would." 

"Why,  Mr.  Orme,"  she  gasped,  "I  thought  you 
gave  it  me  because  it  was  too  precious  to  be  sold 
because  you  wanted  some  one  to  own  the  picture 
who  would  hold  it  sacred." 

"That  is  true,"  he  replied,  "but  if  Esther " 

"And  now  you  would  have  me  take  money  for 
it?"  she  interrupted  in  a  crying  tone.  "Money"! 
"Come  away,  Esther!"  she  urged  in  terror,  as  if 
Orme  had  suggested  that  she  sell  her  God.  Esther 
took  her  mother's  arm  in  the  manner  of  one  whose 
resistance  was  broken.  In  descending  the  hill,  she 
steadied  the  body  of  the  older  woman  to  keep  her 
from  stumbling.  The  eyes  of  Mrs.  Damon  were 
dim. 

Orme  watched  the  women  disappear.  Then  he 
went  slowly  toward  the  house.  He  paused  before 
the  June  rose  leaves  scattered  on  the  grass  by 
Esther  Damon's  rebellious  fingers.  He  threw  him 
self  face  downward  upon  the  ground  and  breathed 
the  perfume  of  the  blossoms.  Thus  he  lay,  un 
mindful  of  all  else  until  he  heard  the  voice  of  Alice, 
who  was  standing  over  him. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Robert,  how  much  longer 
are  you  going  to  lie  there?  The  dew  is  falling. 
You'll  catch  cold." 


BOOK  THREE 
AS  YE  SOW 


How  shall  men  feel  when  the  last  day  begins? 
Shall  they  affrighted  stand  in  presence  of  their  sins? 
Or  shall  their  struggles  and  the  good  they  sought 
Deny  the  shames  their  wrath  and  folly  wrought? 
And  shall  they  see,  each  one  in  all  the  others, 
The  self -same  love  for  truth  that  made  them  brothers? 
And  shall  they  find  their  souls  at  length 
Judged,  not  by  weakness,  but  by  their  strength? 

— JOHN  D.  BARRY. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IF  this  were  an  old-fashioned  story  to-day  the 
birds  would  have  been  voiceless,  the  wind  would 
have  moaned,  the  sky  glowered,  the  sun  turned  its 
face  away.  In  reality,  the  birds  were  singing  their 
gayest  farewell  song.  The  season  was  smiling  its 
sweetest  farewell  smile.  It  was  a  golden  Indian 
summer  afternoon  in  a  forest  carpeted  with  golden 
leaves. 

Harry  Clancy  emerged  from  the  wood,  walked 
along  the  edge  of  the  lake;  threw  pebbles  across 
the  surface  of  the  lazy  water;  aimlessly  whittled 
sticks  with  his  knife  and  cast  them  aside ;  glanced 
at  his  watch;  impatiently  retreated  into  the  narrow 
glade  on  his  right  and  here  continued  the  vigil.  He 
no  longer  appeared  with  Esther  in  the  streets  of 
Freedom.  He  waited  for  her  in  the  forest.  Seating 
himself  on  an  ivy-covered  fallen  log,  he  again  took 
note  of  the  hour.  Then  he  ventured  to  the  edge 
of  the  wood  and  waved  his  hand.  Esther  was  run 
ning  at  full  speed  down  the  road  through  the  or 
chards  where  men  were  preparing  for  market  the 
recently  harvested  fruit.  As  she  made  toward 
Clancy,  her  quaint,  Methodist  head-gear  fell  back 
from  her  face.  She  quickly  seized  her  hat,  crushed 
it  under  her  arm,  and  avoiding  the  wagon  track, 
tore  her  way  through  crackling  brush  to  him. 

159 


160  ESTHER  DAMON 

"Oh,  Harry,  isn't  it  dreadful?  I'm  an  hour  late." 
She  did  not  observe  that  this  was  less  a  calamity  to 
him  than  to  her.  "Sister  Simpkins  was  ill  and  I 
had  to  read  to  her.  Otherwise  I  couldn't  have  come 
at  all.  She  made  me  lose  an  hour  of  you  on  this 
last  day." 

Of  admirable  manly  height,  filled  with  the  grace 
and  spirit  of  youth,  in  her  eyes  Clancy  looked  like 
the  hero  of  a  romance  as  he  turned  toward  her  and 
quickly  asked,  "Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Esther? 
This  isn't  the  last  day." 

"Not  the  last  day!"  she  returned,  smoothing  his 
brown  hair  which  was  long  and  had  been  trained 
to  fall  picturesquely  over  his  forehead.  "It's  the 
last  day  for  a  month.  That  is  forever  in  Freedom." 

He  passed  his  arm  round  her  waist.  As  they 
walked  toward  a  seat  he  said  soothingly,  "Freedom 
is  a  backwoods  place.  I  couldn't  live  if  I  didn't 
get  away  from  it  every  little  while."  Then  he 
looked  at  her  anxiously  and  added,  "You  mustn't 
think  so  much  about  this  short  separation.  I'll  be 
back  before  you  know  it." 

"You  don't  understand,  Harry,"  she  whispered, 
quickly  raising  her  pale  face.  "If  only  I  could  go 
away  from  Freedom — now.  You  said  I  could." 

"I  wish  you  could." 

"Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  say  it,"  she  went  on,  her 
throat  contracting  before  her  very  words,  "but 
wouldn't  it  be  lovely  if  I  could  go  to  New  York 
with  you  ?"  She  left  pride  behind  her  and  continued 
rapidly.  "We  could  be  married  somewhere,"  she 


AS  YE  SOW  161 

said,  aware  of  the  alarm  in  his  blue,  girlishly-lashed 
eyes.  "Do  take  me  with  you,  Harry.  It  seems  to 
me  we  can't  breathe  without  each  other.  Think  of 
being  all  alone  together  for  days,  weeks,  months 
.  .  .  always  together.  Wouldn't  the  world  simply 
stand  still  if  we  should  separate  for  a  second?" 

"We  can't  be  married  now,  Esther,"  he  answered 
nervously.  The  girl  was  at  an  age  when  all  spoken 
words  are  true,  but  his  tone  told  her  that  a  gust 
of  new  wind  was  blowing,  a  wind  she  had  never 
encountered.  "Women  are  funny,"  he  continued. 
"They're  all  so  sentimental.  They  have  marriage  on 
the  brain." 

She  withdrew  from  his  embrace.  "Why,  Harry!" 
After  an  unhappy  interval  she  went  on,  "Why  should 
what  I  said  seem  so  curious  to  you?  You  always 
talked  about  marriage  just  as  they  do  in  books. 
You  know  you  did.  It  was  beautiful."  Her  coun 
tenance  became  suddenly  strange.  A  look  of  ris 
ing  tears  was  in  her  eyes.  Holding  herself  quite 
erect  she  said:  "You  may  call  me  sentimental  if 
you  wish,  Harry.  If  you  mean  by  it  that  I  love 
you,  it's  true  enough.  But  I  haven't  marriage  on 
the  brain.  I  want  no  one  but  you.  You've  said 
ever  so  long  you  loved  me  and  wanted  no  one  but 
me." 

"Of  course  I  do,  Esther,"  he  answered,  touching 
her  hand,  "but  Father  O'Darrell  made  such  a  fuss 
about  it.  My  folks  were  worse.  Do  you  think 
any  minister  in  Freedom  would  marry  a  Catholic 
and  Protestant?  Would  your  father?  And  if  we 


1 62  ESTHER  DAMON 

were  married,  would  you  live  down  at  the  Ivy  Green 
on  money  made  from  whiskey?" 

His  question  seemed  to  bruise  and  bury  her;  but 
she  found  a  way  out  of  the  dilemma.  "Harry,  we 
don't  need  to  live  at  the  Ivy  Green.  We  can  earn 
a  living  some  other  way.  I  don't  mind  what  we 
do." 

"I'm  different,"  he  answered  with  a  superior 
smile.  "I've  got  to  have  good  clothes  and  travel. 
I  can't  give  things  up." 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  Harry,"  she  pleaded,  her 
voice  freighted  with  fear.  "If  I  didn't  know  you, 
I'd  say  you  were  selfish."  Now  she  saw  in  which 
way  the  new  wind  was  sweeping  her.  Its  course 
lay  toward  bitter  doubt,  her  first  doubt  of  friend 
ship,  of  love — all  concentrated  in  Clancy.  When  she 
slowly  spoke  it  was  as  if  a  malevolent  power  were 
requiring  her  to  liquidate  a  debt  long  overdue. 
Her  words  were  the  first  payment.  "Harry,"  she 
said,  clutching  his  shoulders,  "there  is  nothing  I 
can't  do.  I'll  work  for  you  so  hard.  I'll  never 
cost  you  anything.  You  oughtn't  to  want  money 
that  comes  from  such  unhappiness  and  sin  as  the 
tavern  money  does.  Try  to  earn  a  living  in  some 
other  way.  You  can  have  all  you  make  for  your 
self.  I  don't  need  clothes.  I  never  had  any;  so  I 
shan't  miss  them.  All  I  ask  is  to  be  near  you  and 
hear  you  say  once  in  a  while  that  you  love  me." 

"Oh,  don't  worry,  Esther,"  he  laughingly  re 
plied  as  he  kissed  her,  "you're  a  very  pretty  girl. 
Lots  of  fellows  will  want  to  marry  you." 


AS  YE  SOW  163 

His  engaging  Celtic  eyes  were  bent  on  her  in  a 
smile.  His  good  looks  were  never  so  manifest  as 
now  when,  gazing  at  him  to  gather  the  implication 
of  his  words,  she  saw  the  light  sifting  through  the 
trees  turn  his  shaggy,  sylvan  head  to  gold.  She 
pressed  her  hands  hard  against  her  forehead  and 
asked,  "Do  you  think  any  nice  girl  would  ever  let 
two  men  kiss  her?"  His  beautifully  white  teeth 
glittered  in  a  smile.  "What  is  there  funny  about 
that,  Harry?  Surely  no  nice  man  would  ever  kiss 
more  than  the  girl  he  loved.  You  wouldn't,  would 
you,  Harry?"  He  laughed  without  restraint  while 
she  stared.  It  was  not  the  man  she  had  known  at 
whom  she  stared  and  wondered.  With  uncertain 
hands  the  girl  endeavored  to  put  on  her  gray  bonnet ; 
but  her  fingers  would  not  respond  to  her  will.  The 
trees  seemed  to  go  round  and  round.  Finally  she 
gathered  up  her  fragile  strands  of  courage.  She  rose 
immediately,  to  be  followed  by  Clancy. 

"Now  don't,  Esther,"  he  said,  drawing  her  face 
back  to  his.  "I  didn't  mean  to  make  you  feel 
bad.  What  you  said  did  sound  funny,  but  that's  the 
sweet  thing  about  you:  you  don't  know.  I  want  to 
be  awfully  kind  to  you." 

Esther  shook  her  shoulders,  detaching  herself  from 
his  embrace.  "Don't  mind  me.  Don't  try  to  be 
kind  to  me."  Her  fingers  nervously  endeavored  to 
tie  the  knot  at  her  chin.  "Laugh  at  me  all  you  wish. 
I  suppose  there  are  lots  of  horrid  things  I  don't  know. 
You  needn't  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  nuisance,  run 
ning  after  you  and  begging  you  to  marry  me  ... 


1 64  ESTHER  DAMON 

you  begged.  I'm  not  looking  for  you  or  any  one 
else  to  marry  me."  She  broke  off  abruptly  and, 
after  a  brief  collapse  into  tears,  she  went  on,  "Why 
did  you  ever  mention  marriage  ?  Why  couldn't  you 
leave  me  alone,  Harry  ?  What  am  I  ?  You  told  me 
I  was  beautiful  .  .  .  I'm  not  .  .  .  I'm  ugly  and 
ignorant.  I'm  nothing  to  conquer." 

"Do  stop,  Esther,"  he  said,  seizing  one  of  her 
fluttering  hands.  "I  didn't  mean  a  word.  It  was 
a  joke.  Don't  take  on  so.  I  wouldn't  have  you 
any  different  for  the  world.  I  can't  bear  to  see  you 
blue.  Of  course  I  love  you." 

But  once  having  found  the  touchstone  of  truth 
Esther  could  not  again  accept  falsehood.  "Don't 
come  near  me.  Don't  say  these  things.  Your  voice 
hasn't  the  sound  it  used  to  have.  It  lost  that  some 
time  ago.  No  matter  what  you  say,  you  haven't  the 
right  tone.  I  know  you  don't  love  me  because  I  care 
so  much  for  you  that  I  feel  every  little  change  in  your 
voice.  I  couldn't  laugh  at  you,  nor  say  unkind 
things  to  you.  You  can  ...  I  know  what  that 
means.  I'll  never  mention  marriage  again.  .  .  . 
You  don't  want  me.  I'm  going  home.  You  may 
have  the  entire  afternoon  to  get  ready  for  your  trip 
to  New  York." 

She  walked  ahead  of  him  through  the  narrow 
path  made  by  their  feet  during  the  past  months. 
But  he  hastened  to  overtake  her.  "Don't  behave 
that  way,  Esther.  Be  a  good  girl.  You're  always 
so  nice.  Don't  be  cross  just  the  last  minute.  If 
you  keep  on  you'll  spoil  my  trip  .  .  .  that  isn't  like 


AS  YE  SOW  165 

you.  Let's  have  a  swim  together  and  forget  this." 
He  was  at  her  side,  and  again  placing  his  hands 
upon  her  shoulders,  with  an  old,  familiar  gesture  he 
drew  her  to  him. 

She  resisted;  then  seemed  to  yield  to  his  spell. 
"Yes,  Harry  .  .  .  we'll  swim  together  for  the  last 
time." 

There  was  on  his  part  a  superabundance  of  be 
lated  interest,  kindness,  and  affection  as  he  returned, 
"Not  the  last  time,  Esther.  We're  going  to  have 
lots  of  swims.  I'll  give  you  a  long  start  and  we'll 
race.  You're  the  only  woman  I  ever  saw  who  could 
really  swim." 

"It  will  be  the  last  time  this  year.  When  you 
come  back  it  will  be  cold.  Then  winter  will  come. 
Who  can  tell  what  the  spring  will  be?" 

While  struggling  with  her  forebodings  she  rested 
her  head  on  his  breast.  For  some  minutes  only  the 
hum  of  unseen  life  was  in  the  air.  "After  all,  Esther, 
if  you're  so  anxious  to  get  away  from  this  place — and 
I  don't  blame  you — why  don't  you  go  as  a  mission 
ary?  It  will  be  seeing  something  of  the  world. 
Anything  is  better  than  Freedom.  Naturally  it 
would  be  awful  to  me,  but  you  were  brought  up 
that  way.  It  mightn't  be  so  bad  for  you." 

She  raised  her  head  as  though  she  had  much, 
everything,  to  say,  but  she  was  voiceless.  Then  she 
made  an  odd  clutching  gesture  and  went  onward  as 
before.  They  separated  at  the  bath  houses  which 
were  in  a  thick  grove  of  willows  bordering  the  lake. 
Esther  was  dressed  for  the  swim  sooner  than  Harry. 


i66  ESTHER  DAMON 

In  a  long-sleeved  cumbrous  black  garment,  dictated 
by  the  decorous  decree  of  the  village  quilting-bee, 
she  walked  up  and  down  the  lane. 

When  Clancy  appeared  she  lightly  took  his  hand 
and  ran  with  him  to  an  opening  in  the  willows 
where  boats  were  moored.  As  she  put  her  foot  into 
the  water  she  drew  back,  and  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands. 

"What  is  it,  Esther?"   he  asked  anxiously. 

She  bathed  her  eyes  for  some  seconds.  "Come 
on,  Esther,"  he  urged.  "You'll  feel  better  when 
we're  in  the  water." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  again,  and  they  picked 
their  way  over  the  sharp  pebbles;  but  presently,  to 
avoid  the  hurt  of  them,  with  identity  of  impulse  the 
swimmers  flung  themselves  into  the  lake.  Esther 
swam  on  her  side,  and  so  entirely  without  effort  that 
it  was  as  if  she  were  at  one  with  the  water. 

"When  I  go  into  the  lake,  Harry,"  she  said  in  a 
brighter  tone,  "I  forget  I'm  flesh  and  blood.  I'm 
spirit." 

Clancy  circled  round  her  with  proficiency  evolved 
during  many  boyhood  days  of  truancy  from  school. 
"You're  all  right  now,  aren't  you?"  he  asked. 
"Isn't  it  bully  swimming  to-day?" 

"Splendid.  The  happiest  time  of  my  life,  Harry, 
has  been  here  in  this  lake  where  you  taught  me  to 
swim.  Let's  go  over  to  the  water-lily  bed.  You 
know  where  we  found  those  yellow  and  white  lilies 
in  the  spring." 

They  made  for  the  northern  shore  and  reached 


AS  YE  SOW  167 

the  indenture  in  which  were  the  great  flat  leaves  of 
lilies.  "Not  a  flower,"  said  Harry. 

"No,"  she  answered  ruefully,  "they're  all  gone." 
Both  were  floating  when  she  placed  her  arm  under 
his  neck,  and  with  a  sudden  rise  of  spirits,  said, 
"Harry,  let's  have  a  nice  long  swim  across  the  lake. 
We'll  play  we're  going  to  sea.  I  can  see  the  waves, 
can't  you?" 

"You're  a  funny  girl.  You've  never  been  to  sea 
in  your  life." 

"I  know  I've  never  travelled  except  to  go  to 
camp-meetings.  You've  been  to  Asbury  Park  and 
everywhere.  But  I  do  see  the  sea  all  the  same. 
I've  read  about  it  in  books.  I  see  all  the  things  I 
read.  It's  like  this  lake,  only  larger,  and  it  has  a 
great  heart  which  always  throbs.  I  wish  we  were 
at  sea,  don't  you,  Harry?"  She  rested  her  head  on 
his  shoulder,  using  her  legs  as  motive  power. 

"You'd  be  wanting  to  come  back  mighty  quick 
if  we  really  were." 

"No,  I  shouldn't.  .  .  .I'd  go  on  forever  and  ever 
like  this.  The  sea  must  be  like  eternity." 

"Esther,  you  foolish  girl,  do  open  your  eyes  and 
come  along  and  swim." 

As  she  looked  at  the  gently  rolling  hills,  the  hard, 
blue  sky,  she  said,  "I  like  this  part  of  the  lake. 
It's  so  nice  and  deep  here.  They  say  there's  no  bot 
tom.  Hell  is  down  below."  She  was  swimming 
with  her  feet,  but  she  was  being  carried  on  at  ac 
celerated  speed  by  Clancy's  strong,  powerful  strokes. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Esther,  stop  talking  about 


1 68  ESTHER  DAMON 

such  creepy  things.  If  we  both  weren't  such  good 
swimmers  we  might  lose  our  nerve  out  here." 

"You  aren't  afraid  are  you,  Harry?"  she  asked, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  him.  "You  and  I  couldn't  sink 
if  we  tried.  What  difference  would  it  make  if  we 
did — go  right  down  here  together?" 

With  her  words  came  the  pressure  of  her  lips  on 
his.  Her  arms  and  legs  were  tentacles  clutching 
him.  Her  body  was  a  weight  of  stone  carrying  him 
down.  Harry  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  the  black 
flecks  in  the  water,  the  darting  fish,  the  tangled, 
floating  weeds.  He  dug  his  nails  into  the  back  of 
her  neck  and  began  beating  her.  Esther's  desperate 
grip  relaxed.  He  rose  to  the  surface,  dragging  her 
with  him  by  her  long,  thick  braids  of  hair.  He 
trod  water  and  held  her  while  she  choked  and 
strangled,  and  until  exhausted  and  mute,  she  lay 
on  her  back,  her  nose  pinched,  her  eyes  closed  in 
their  large,  black  sockets. 

"I'll  take  you  to  shore,"  he  said  with  protecting 
affection.  "Float  by  my  side  so  I  can  keep  watch 
of  you,  you  bad  girl." 

Her  voice  was  throaty  from  coughing,  and  she  said 
brokenly,  "No,  let  me  swim,  Harry.  I'm  such  a 
bother  so." 

For  an  instant  he  looked  at  her  as  if  she  were  an 
enemy.  "Lie  right  where  you  are,"  he  commanded. 
"I  won't  trust  you  to  swim." 

"I'm  very  strong,  Harry,"  she  said  meekly.  "Let 
me  go  on  ahead  of  you.  If  anything  happens  you 
can  save  me  ...  if  you  think  it's  worth  while." 


AS  YE  SOW  169 

Esther  in  the  lead,  and  he  following,  they  slowly 
made  their  way  toward  the  landing.  Clancy  in 
sisted  that  she  rest  at  intervals  by  lying  motionless 
on  her  back.  Once  on  the  shore,  he  took  her  in 
his  arms,  shook  her  playfully  and  said,  "Now  you 
see  what  comes  of  talking  of  such  crazy  things.  If 
I  hadn't  been  brought  up  as  a  fish,  nothing  could 
have  saved  either  of  us." 

"I'll  never  do  so  again,"  she  said  penitently, 
"but  I'm  sorry  I  came  back."  Her  teeth  chattered, 
her  body  shook  and  shivered. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  his  eyes  staring 
into  hers. 

"Oh,  I'm  such  a  trouble  .  .  .  that's  all." 

"Nonsense.  Wait  a  minute,  Esther,  I'll  get  you 
some  brandy."  He  started  to  fetch  it.  "I  always 
take  a  drink  after  swimming." 

"No,  Harry,  not  any.    Thank  you." 

"What  cranks  you  Methodists  are."  Taking  her 
gently  by  the  arm  he  led  her  to  the  bath  house  and 
counselled,  "If  you  won't  have  brandy,  Esther,  do 
hurry  and  get  out  of  your  clothes.  You'll  catch  cold 
if  you  don't." 

When  she  closed  the  door  he  leaped  to  his  own 
room  like  a  healthy,  young,  frisking  animal.  He 
whistled,  sang,  and  reappeared  to  call,  "Esther!" 
On  receiving  no  response,  he  again  cried,  "Esther, 
Esther,  are  you  nearly  ready?"  Presently  he  went 
to  the  door  and  rapped.  There  was  silence.  Then  he 
thrust  his  head  within  the  aperture  and  found  the 
girl  lying  on  the  floor — a  crouching,  outstretched, 


170  ESTHER  DAMON 

conquered  thing  in  a  paroxysm  of  shuddering. 
" What's  the  matter,  Esther?  Are  you  crying?"  he 
anxiously  asked  as  he  entered  the  bath  house  and 
endeavored  to  lift  her.  "Tell  me." 

She  looked  at  him  with  tragic,  wounded  eyes,  like 
one  extracting  from  mortal  affliction  its  last  dregs. 
"No,  Harry." 

"You're  cold,"  he  said,  bending  over  her.  "Take 
off  those  wet  things.  Be  reasonable  and  let  me  give 
you  some  brandy." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I'm  not  cold.  You're  in  a 
hurry,  Harry  .  .  .  you  go  home  first.  I'll  get 
dressed  later." 

"Of  course  I'll  wait  for  you,  Esther.  Only  please 
be  as  quick  as  you  can.  I've  lots  of  things  to  do 
before  I  leave." 

When  she  emerged  from  the  bath  house  a  veil  of 
imperishable  sadness  hung  over  the  girl's  face.  She 
fell  back  against  the  door.  Clancy  frowned  at  her. 
"Esther!"  he  said  sharply. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  in  a  little  terrified  gasp. 

"Esther  .  .  .  I'll  bet  you  did  it  purposely.  If 
you  did,  ...  it  would  settle  everything  between  us." 

She  shook  her  head  despairingly.  "You'd  like, 
wouldn't  you,  Harry,  to  have  something  settle  every 
thing  ?  Don't  look  for  excuses  and  be  cross  with  me 
because  I  got  frightened.  ...  I  can't  stand  it.  ... 
I  didn't  mean  to  be  a  nuisance.  ...  I  hope  this 
hasn't  spoiled  your  last  day."  She  leaned  against 
him  limply.  "Don't  think  of  this  horrid  afternoon," 
she  said,  fingering  the  buttons  of  his  coat.  "I  hope, 


AS  YE  SOW  171 

Harry,  you'll  be  happy.  You'll  be  so  busy  seeing 
things  in  New  York  that  you  won't  have  time  to 
write  often,  but — send  me  just  one  letter." 

His  arms  lightly  clasped  her  waist,  as  from  habit 
rather  than  inclination.  "Of  course  I'll  write  you, 
Esther." 

Even  in  the  enchantment  of  the  embrace  she  per 
ceived  his  eagerness  to  be  gone.  When  he  touched 
her  his  eyes  turned  toward  Freedom.  "You're  in 
such  a  hurry,  Harry,  you  must  go  first."  The 
lovers  never  went  back  to  the  village  together.  "  Let 
me  wait  here." 

"No,  I'll  not,"  he  replied  in  scrutiny,  as 
though  each  second  condensed  his  suspicion  into 
an  opinion.  "You'll  go  to  town  first.  I'll  walk 
behind  every  inch  of  the  way.  I  won't  have  any 
more  nonsense.  I  believe  you  did  do  that  purposely. 
If  you  did,  you're  crazy.  I'm  afraid  of  you.  All 
you  Methodists  are  a  little  off." 

She  listened  as  a  mother  listens  to  the  brutal  ut 
terance  of  a  child,  listened  and  forgave.  "Don't." 
Esther  held  her  cheek  against  his,  and  her  every  ca 
dence  was  a  betrayal  of  the  helpless  being  he  had 
made  of  her.  "I  won't  be  a  nuisance  again,  Harry. 
Pretend  you  love  me  a  little  .  .  .  won't  you  dear?" 

"I  love  you."  The  avowal  was  like  a  well-learned 
lesson.  "Why  do  you  suddenly  think  I  don't?" 

"It  isn't  sudden,  Harry.  Don't  pretend  any 
more  .  .  .  it's  too  hard  for  you.  Good-by,  I'll  see 
you  go  out  on  the  stage  to-morrow  night.  I'll  be 
somewhere  about." 


172  ESTHER  DAMON 

His  face  had  gone  white.  "No,  you  mustn't  .  .  . 
some  one  might  see  you." 

"I  don't  care  .  .  .  I've  got  beyond  that  .  .  . 
I'm  not  afraid  any  more."  Then  with  a  sudden 
accession  of  strength  she  added,  "This  is  good-by 
if  you  wish  it."  As  she  kissed  him  for  the  last  time 
her  life  seemed  to  go  out  in  that  kiss.  "Good-by," 
she  repeated,  and  gasped,  "this  is  hard  to  bear."* 
Then  she  ran  from  his  arms  like  a  wild  woman 
through  the  elderberry  bushes.  When  she  arrived  at 
the  end  of  the  lane  which  was  a  fork  of  the  townward 
road,  she  looked  back  with  a  dim  smile  and  made  a 
melancholy  gesture  of  leave-taking. 


CHAPTER  XV 

LUCY  YATES  was  the  young  person  of  high  privi 
lege  in  Freedom.  The  Ormes,  Mrs.  Brewster,  the 
Damons — abysmal  as  was  the  difference  between 
them — united  in  indulgence  for  the  daughter  of  the 
village  physician.  Since  Orme's  bankruptcy,  Dr. 
Yates  had  become  the  first  citizen  of  the  town.  Like 
a  little  butterfly  Lucy  hummed  about  the  streets  from 
morning  till  night,  overturning  the  conventions  of  the 
place,  improvising  her  own  rules  of  conduct.  From 
childhood  Esther  and  she  had  had  a  romantic  friend 
ship.  Each  complemented  the  other.  Esther  ad 
mired  Lucy's  grace,  her  unrestraint,  her  prettiness, 
her  worldliness — Lucy  was  almost  like  a  city  girl. 
Lucy  adored  Esther  for  her  regal  beauty,  her  superi 
ority  in  the  class-room,  her  dignity  of  character. 

The  evening  following  Esther's  separation  from 
Harry,  while  Mrs.  Damon  and  her  daughter  were  at 
supper,  Lucy  fluttered  into  the  parsonage.  Elder 
Damon  was  preaching  at  Attica,  and  Mrs.  Damon 
and  Esther  were  alone.  Lucy's  appearance  at  the 
minister's  home  intensified  Mrs.  Damon's  misgiv 
ings  about  allowing  Esther  to  associate  with  the  un 
righteous.  With  the  girl's  presence  the  sitting-room, 
perfumed  with  sanctity  and  stored  with  holy  tradi 
tions,  seemed  to  suffer  an  invasion  of  the  world  itself. 

173 


174  ESTHER  DAMON 

The  minister's  wife  could  credit  the  disquieting 
rumor  that  at  the  last  Baptist  donation  party  there 
had  been  dancing,  with  Lucy  leading  the  profane 
pastime.  But  Mrs.  Damon  was  genuinely  fond  of 
the  girl,  and  was  soon  cajoled  into  allowing  Esther 
to  go  for  a  walk. 

No  sooner  were  the  friends  out  of  the  house  than 
Lucy  seized  Esther's  arm.  "Your  mother  said  you 
could  be  gone  an  hour.  That  means  two.  Let's 
go  to  the  Catholic  church — it  will  be  such  fun." 

Esther's  eyes  rested  on  the  little  Catholic  house  of 
worship.  To  the  daughter  of  a  Methodist  preacher, 
nurtured  as  she  had  been  on  absurd  New  England 
traditions  concerning  the  older  faith,  this  was  a  dar 
ing  suggestion.  That  cross  standing  out  so  clearly 
on  the  roof  of  the  church  was  for  her  a  symbol  not 
of  the  crucifixion  of  the  Son  of  Man,  but  of  super 
stition,  idolatry,  and  persecution.  "Why  ...  I 
was  never  in  a  Catholic  church  in  my  life." 

"I've  been  three  times,"  boasted  Lucy.  "It  was 
a  lark.  We  rolled  marbles  right  up  against  the 
pulpit,  and  laughed  till  Father  O'Darrell  ordered  us 
out;  but  we  didn't  go." 

It  was  true,  adventurous  young  Protestants  in 
Freedom  sometimes  attended  the  Catholic  service. 
They  went  as  to  a  menagerie  or  as  to  a  Chinese  joss- 
house — guided  by  curiosity  for  strange  incense,  mys 
terious  pictures,  and  weird  rites.  Lucy's  words  re 
vealed  to  Esther  a  latent  tenderness  in  her  heart  for 
the  mother  church.  After  all,  it  was  Harry's  place  of 
devotion.  He  had  been  reared  in  the  Catholic  faith. 


AS  YE  SOW  175 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  be  rude,"  Esther  answered.  "I 
should  be  angry  if  the  Catholics  caused  a  disturbance 
in  our  meeting-house.  But  I'd  love  to  see  what  the 
Catholic  church  is  like.  Is  there  service  to-night?" 
"  Something  is  going  on.  I  saw  the  light  as  I  came 
along,"  replied  Lucy,  quickening  her  pace. 

The  pink  wainscoted  walls  of  the  primitive  little 
church  entered  by  the  two  girls  were  hung  with  small 
chromos  marking  the  stations  of  the  Cross.  The 
Star  of  Bethlehem  was  of  crudely  colored  glass ;  but 
the  altars  were  smothered  with  flowers.  To  Esther's 
inexperienced  eyes  it  was  as  if  she  were  in  a  mag 
nificent,  mysterious,  dim-lighted,  tapestry-hung  tem 
ple  where  an  unknown  god  was  worshipped.  The 
church  was  half  filled  with  a  kneeling  congregation. 
Father  O'Darrell,  robed  in  white,  was  on  his  knees, 
saying  something  in  Latin. 

Esther  heard  the  click  of  rosaries,  the  whispers  of 
prayers.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  kneel  in  this 
church  of  Harry's  boyhood.  If  only  he  were  there 
with  the  others!  Her  love  now  expressed  itself  in  a 
desire  to  yield  to  him  her  own  true  faith,  born  of 
centuries  of  suffering  and  sacrifice.  In  deep  yearn 
ing  for  an  exalted  moment,  she  thought  how  splendid 
it  would  be  here  on  her  knees  at  his  side  to  give  as 
a  supreme  offering  her  soul  to  his  faith.  What  joy 
there  would  be  in  such  self -giving.  She  checked  her 
self.  This  was  idolatry.  She  could  not  fraternize 
with  the  spirit  of  the  Catholic  church.  Hers  was  the 
simple  religion  of  the  tent-maker,  the  carpenter. 
Almost  blinded  by  the  blur  of  flowers  and  candle- 


176  ESTHER  DAMON 

lights  she  sank  into  the  seat  by  Lucy,  breathless  to 
see  what  would  happen.  At  intervals  she  caught  a 
word  of  Father  O'Darrell's  Latin  prayer. 

The  worshippers  resumed  their  places  in  the  pews. 
Covert  glances  were  cast  in  the  direction  of  the  two 
Protestant  girls.  Esther  looked  straight  before  her 
at  Father  O'Darrell,  and  at  the  young  man  and 
woman  standing  before  him.  Esther  knew  Harry's 
back,  his  handsome,  shaggy  head.  He  had  not  gone 
to  New  York  the  evening  before.  Why  was  he  at  the 
side  of  the  girl  in  white?  In  the  stunning  force  of 
the  blow  at  first  she  gathered  no  meaning  from  what 
she  saw.  Father  O'Darrell  impressively  began  a 
service  in  English.  Wild  thoughts  whirled  through 
Esther's  brain.  Lucy  seized  her  hand  and  whisper 
ing,  "Why,  it's  a  wedding!"  she  snuggled  up  to 
Esther  and  took  her  arm.  "Aren't  you  glad  you 
came?"  Esther's  body  sagged.  Lucy  peered  for 
ward.  "It's  Harry  Clancy  and  that  girl  at  the  Ivy 
Green.  Isn't  it  funny  to  think  we're  at  their  wed 
ding?" 

Esther  could  not  look  at  the  altar.  "I,  Harry 
Clancy — "  Who  was  the  man  she  had  known? 
Were  those  vows  she  heard  ?  Was  that  a  ring  being 
blessed  ?  Could  the  world  be  real  ?  Who  was  she  ? 
What  was  she  but  a  burning,  bursting  heart?  Her 
eyes  turned  to  the  altar  on  the  left,  above  which  was 
the  innocent,  blue-robed  figure  of  a  maiden,  her 
bare  shoulders  covered  with  flowing  hair,  on  her 
head  a  diadem  of  gold.  At  her  feet  burned  rows 
of  candles.  For  her  lilies  gave  their  lives  in  per- 


AS  YE  SOW  177 

fumed  death.  That  great  mother  was  offering  to 
the  world  her  son.  Esther  could  not  take  her  eyes 
from  the  sweet-faced  Virgin.  She  wished  to  fling 
herself  before  the  figure  and  sob. 

Voices  at  the  altar  ceased.  The  organ  burst  out 
in  triumphant  joy.  Harry  and  his  wife  tried  to 
hasten  away;  but  with  shouts  and  laughter  their 
friends  hurled  at  them  rice  and  slippers.  Esther 
gazed  hard  at  the  mother  over  the  altar  holding  her 
son  in  her  arms.  The  girl  hoped  Harry  would  not 
see  her;  but  so  closely  related  to  him  was  she  that 
she  knew  when  he  started  at  sight  of  her. 

"Wasn't  it  pretty?"  chattered  Lucy.  "I  want  a 
dress  made  like  the  one  Harry's  wife  wore.  I'd  like 
to  be  married  in  church  with  candles  and  flowers. 
Wouldn't—  Feeling  Esther's  chilled  hand,  she 

asked  quickly,  "What  is  the  matter,  dear?" 

"I  want  to  go  home  .  .  .  now.  ...  I  don't  feel 
well." 

"That's  too  bad,  darling,"  said  Lucy,  as  they  fol 
lowed  the  gay  party  out  of  the  church. 

Sounds  of  gayety  from  the  merrymakers  greeted 
the  ears  of  Esther  and  Lucy  as  the  girls  went  toward 
the  parsonage.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Esther 
leaned  heavily  on  Lucy.  Her  knees  gave  at  every 
step.  She  wished  to  open  her  heart  to  her  friend. 
She  turned  to  do  so,  but  she  feared  to  frighten  the 
little  sunshine  girl.  Lucy  was  never  so  inexpressibly 
dear  to  Esther  as  this  evening.  Perhaps  this  was  the 
last  time  they  would  ever  walk  together  under  the 
great  maple  and  elm  trees.  In  saying  good-night, 


178  ESTHER  DAMON 

Esther  kissed  Lucy  many  times.  "Do  you  love 
me?" 

"You're  my  sister,  Esther.  You're  everything," 
Lucy  answered,  glad  as  always  to  look  up  to  Esther. 

"Will  you  love  me  always?" 

"Always." 

"No,  you  won't,"  Esther  burst  out  violently.  "No 
one  does." 

"Why,  Esther,  you  are  strange  to-night.  Every 
one  loves  you.  I  wish  I  were  half  as  perfect.  When 
I  get  married  I  want  you  to  be  my  bridesmaid  and 
I'll  be  yours.  I'm  going  to  call  my  first  daughter 
Esther." 

"You  won't,  Lucy.    I'm  bad." 

Lucy  kissed  her.  "Oh,  you  saint.  Mrs.  Damon 
always  calls  herself  bad,  too.  Good-night,  dearest. 
Cheer  up." 

"Good-night,  dear."  As  Lucy  ran  down  the 
street  Esther  fancied  her  friend  was  fleeing  from  her. 

Esther  was  glad  to  be  alone  so  that  her  great, 
splashing  tears  might  fall  unrestrained.  She  could 
not  go  into  the  house.  Leaning  wearily  against  a 
tree,  she  tasted  the  bitter  pangs  of  disastrous  love. 
Her  striking  out  for  liberty  and  wider  experience,  her 
pity  for  Harry,  his  bringing  romance  into  her  gray 
life  had  brought  her  thus  to  her  father's  house.  Now 
her  childhood  with  its  discipline,  its  austerities,  its 
rigors,  returned  to  her  as  one  long  summer  day  of 
happiness.  If  only  she  could  go  back  and  bow  her 
head  before  her  parents'  authority.  How  easy  it 
would  be  in  comparison  with  what  she  must  endure. 


AS  YE  SOW  179 

She  did  not  know  which  way  to  go.  She  seemed 
bewildered,  lost.  She  started  toward  the  house,  but 
she  felt  a  weight  on  her  head  and  shoulders.  She 
sank  to  the  steps  of  the  porch,  but  she  wept  no  more. 
Tears  were  for  those  who  had  hope;  for  her  there 
was  none. 

Again  and  again  she  went  over  the  past,  erasing 
it,  until  her  mother  called,  "Daughter!  daughter, 
dear!" 

Esther  rose,  her  girlhood  gone.  She  was  a 
woman,  with  a  high  definite  form  of  life.  "I  won't 
be  crushed.  I  won't,"  she  said,  as  she  went  into  the 
house. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ESTHER  was  never  less  Esther  than  during  the 
month  following  Clancy's  marriage.  She  never 
stamped  her  feet,  nor  slammed  doors,  nor  gave 
way  to  tempests  of  anger.  She  expressed  no  longing 
for  milliners'  hats  instead  of  those  queer  bonnets 
made  by  her  mother.  Her  high  spirit  was  all  gen 
tleness  and  humility.  Her  obedience  was  beautiful  to 
see.  On  Sunday  she  attended  divine  service  with 
her  parents,  and  to  spare  them  uneasiness,  she  still 
taught  her  class  of  children.  During  the  week,  when 
Mrs.  Damon  went  on  pilgrimages  of  prayer,  Esther 
remained  at  home  and  worked.  Hitherto  she  had 
shrunk  from  unbeautiful  household  tasks.  Now 
she  plunged  into  them.  She  scrubbed  the  floors, 
she  cleaned  the  windows,  she  polished  the  stove. 
When  she  beat  the  soiled  linen  with  her  fists  it  was 
as  if  she  sought  to  wound  her  flesh. 

Mrs.  Damon,  radiating  gentle  optimism,  came  in 
from  the  post  office.  Seeing  the  violence  of  the  girl's 
efforts,  she  said,  "Of  course,  Esther,  you  should 
know  how  to  do  everything.  When  you  are  a  mis 
sionary  service  will  be  your  life.  But,  dear  child, 
you  look  over-tired.  You  seem  quite  altered." 

"I  want  to  work  hard,  mother,"  answered  Esther, 
her  great  eyes  burning  as  if  feeding  on  the  blood  of 

180 


AS  YE  SOW  181 

her  white,  worn  face.  "I  want  to  test  my  strength. 
Perhaps  some  day  I'll  need  to  be  a  servant." 

"Oh,  my  child,"  protested  Mrs.  Damon,  "dry 
your  hands  and  come  into  the  sitting-room.  I  want 
to  speak  with  you." 

The  girl  was  in  the  kitchen,  bending  over  a  steam 
ing  tub  of  clothes.  Her  gray  print  dress  was  turned 
in  at  the  throat;  her  sleeves  were  rolled  high  above 
the  elbows,  revealing  creamy,  soft  arms.  Esther  had 
worked  until  drops  of  perspiration  stood  on  her 
brow.  She  divested  herself  of  her  apron,  closed  the 
collar  of  her  dress,  let  down  the  sleeves,  fastened  the 
cuffs,  went  into  the  room  and  sat  before  her  mother, 
whose  trembling  hands  held  an  envelope.  Esther 
looked  at  the  paper  in  dumb,  increasing  alarm.  It 
did  not  make  her  less  anxious  that  Mrs.  Damon  was 
smiling  as  if  she  had  just  received  a  rich,  new  happi 
ness.  "It  has  come  at  last,  Esther,  sooner  than  I 
expected." 

"What  has  come?"  Esther's  bewilderment  was 
unmistakable. 

"The  call,  child,  direct  from  the  Board  of  Mis 
sions  for  you  to  go  to  China.  Of  course  the  separa 
tion  will  be  hard  for  your  father  and  me,  but  you've 
been  reared  for  missionary  labor.  We'll  keep  our 
eyes  fixed  on  the  covenant  when  He  spared  your 
life.  What  a  big,  fine,  strong  woman  you  will  be 
for  the  work  of  the  Lord." 

"For  the  work  of  the  Lord!"  Mother  and 
daughter  seemed  no  longer  to  breathe  the  same  air. 

"Yes,  for  our  dear  Saviour,"  Mrs.  Damon  went 


1 82  ESTHER  DAMON 

on  beatifically.  "Perhaps  at  first  it  will  be  hard  for 
one  so  young  as  you.  But  think  of  those  brave 
young  followers  of  John  Wesley.  They  left  luxury 
in  England  to  wander  through  the  American  wilder 
ness.  They  preached  in  tents  and  cabins.  They 
forded  rivers  and  almost  died  in  swamps.  Often 
they  slept  under  the  stars  with  a  saddle  for  a  pillow 
and  an  overcoat  for  a  bed.  Your  grandfather  Da 
mon  was  one  of  them." 

Esther  withheld  her  face  from  her  mother.  "  Jesus 
doesn't  want  me." 

"How  can  you  say  such  a  thing,  daughter?" 

"No,"  insisted  the  girl,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  chart 
of  prayers  hanging  on  the  wall,  "the  Lord  hasn't 
the  least  concern  for  me." 

Esther  seemed  to  surround  herself  by  a  wall  not 
to  be  penetrated  by  her  mother.  Mrs.  Damon's  dim 
eyes  endeavored  to  pierce  it;  but  it  loomed  there, 
forbidding  and  chill,  a  structure  of  mystery.  The 
mother  seized  Esther's  hands  and  earnestly  ques 
tioned,  "What  has  come  over  you,  my  child ?  Why 
do  you  speak  so  strangely?  Have  you  lost  your 
vision  of  purpose  ?  It  can't  be  that  all  your  father's 
teaching  is  of  no  avail." 

Esther's  ravaged  face  confronted  her  mother. 
"God  has  forgotten  me.  If  He  had  one  thought 
for  me,  He  wouldn't  allow  me  to  live." 

The  mother's  hand  smoothed  the  head  of  her 
daughter  as  if  she  were  a  child.  "  Not  let  you  live, 
dear?  Why,  you  are  of  His  chosen  ones.  You 
speak  as  if  you  didn't  love  God." 


AS  YE  SOW  183 

The  girl  averted  her  glance.  She  desired  not  to 
behold  the  anguish  her  words  would  cause.  Her 
chair  was  moved  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  table 
before  she  responded,  "How  can  I  love  God? 
What  has  He  done  for  me?" 

"Everything,  my  dear.  He  saved  your  life.  He 
made  you  a  joy  to  your  parents.  Now  you're  to 
carry  light  to  thousands  awaiting  you." 

With  every  second,  difficulty  of  speech  increased 
for  the  girl.  Her  entire  body  seemed  to  contract; 
but  suddenly  she  turned  to  her  mother  as  if  resolute 
never  again  to  utter  a  word  not  dictated  by  truth. 
"Light,  mother.  I  can't  do  what  you  expect.  I 
need  help  more  than  any  heathen." 

The  poor  woman  seemed  to  feel  that  in  this 
moment  the  earth  shifted,  leaving  her  suspended  in 
the  air;  but  she  finally  answered,  "Do  you  realize 
what  you  are  saying,  Esther — that  you  are  deaf  to 
the  summons  of  our  Master  ?  "  She  paused  before  the 
overwhelming  image.  "Aren't  you  afraid,  daughter, 
God  will  withdraw  His  spirit  from  you?" 

"I  have  no  spirit,"  the  girl  returned  in  slow 
desperation.  "I've  only  a  miserable,  suffering 
body." 

Mrs.  Damon  looked  at  her  daughter.  Her  gentle 
glance  brushed  lightly  past  base  and  evil  things. 
"How  can  you  so  grieve  me,  dear?  I  don't  under 
stand  the  ways  of  the  children  of  the  Lord." 

Esther  leaned  far  over  the  table,  her  rigid  hands 
clasped.  "That's  true.  You  don't  understand. 
You  never  understood  me  ...  poor,  dear  mother." 


1 84  ESTHER  DAMON 

The  girl's  lips  trembled;  her  head  sank  to  the 
table;  her  force  seemed  spent,  as  she  added  with 
smothered  voice,  "I  wasn't  worth  understanding. 
...  I  wasn't  worth  bringing  into  the  world." 
With  violence  she  flung  out  her  arms  in  the  piteous, 
stammering  question,  "Why  was  I  ever  born?" 

Mrs.  Damon  rose,  drew  her  chair  close  to  that 
of  her  daughter,  and  said  softly,  "You  blessed  girl." 
But  Esther  shrank  from  this  unmerited  tenderness 
as  if  touched  by  fire.  "You've  worked  too  hard. 
You  shouldn't  tire  yourself  so." 

The  girl  did  not  look  up.  She  sat  dumb  with 
agony,  her  head  swaying  back  and  forth.  "No,  no! 
.  .  .  I'm  not  tired.  My  conscience  is  scorching  me 
.  .  .  that's  all." 

At  these  words  Mrs.  Damon  lost  her  way  in  a 
thicket  of  conjecture.  "Of  course,  child,  we  are  all 
of  unseemly  heart  .  .  .  but  there  are  no  grave  trans 
gressions  in  your  sweet,  pure,  young  life." 

Esther  raised  her  head,  determined  no  longer  to 
evade  danger.  Still  she  hesitated,  heart-broken  be 
fore  the  knowledge  of  the  blow  she  was  striking: 
"My  life  isn't  sweet  .  .  .  nor  pure.  My  soul  is  a 
tangle  of  sin.  I'm  wicked,  mother  .  .  .  the  wick 
edest  woman  you  ever  heard  of." 

A  sick,  scared  look  came  into  the  eyes  of  Mrs. 
Damon.  "Darling  daughter,  I  felt  just  that  way 
when  I  had  my  silk  shawl  with  fringe.  Neither 
your  father  nor  I  considered  the  ribbons  and  lace 
very  serious,  for,  child,  I  never  told  you  before — 
but  perhaps  you've  heard  it  from  others — you're 


AS  YE  SOW  185 

very  beautiful.  It's  natural  for  you  to  like  luxury. 
Don't  torture  yourself  over  those  furbelows." 

These  words  sounded  the  depths  of  despair  in  the 
girl's  soul.  Wrath  and  anger  could  not  have  hurt  as 
did  her  mother's  trembling  anxiety  to  avert  fate. 
But  she  must  speak  and  at  once.  "Mother,  dear 
est,"  she  said,  "you're  not  afraid  to  listen  to  what  I 
have  to  tell?" 

What  had  this  good  woman  who  lived  for  faith 
and  love  of  God  to  fear?  "No,  I'm  not  afraid, 
Esther."  Her  eyes  were  a  plea  for  enlightenment. 
Her  voice  craved  for  mercy. 

"You  should  be,"  the  girl  went  on,  pressing  her 
teeth  against  her  hands  to  restrain  the  sobs.  She 
placed  a  sustaining  arm  round  her  mother.  "For 
give  me,  dear  .  .  .  but  how  did  you  who  were  so 
good  come  to  be  the  mother  of  one  so  bad  as  I? 
Don't  you  understand  ?  "  The  mother's  eyes  pressed 
toward  her.  They  could  not  pierce  the  veil  hanging 
before  them.  "Don't  you  understand?  No,  how 
can  you  ?  You  never  saw  sin  nor  evil.  Look  at  me. 
Look  at  me!  See  how  I'm  changed." 

"My  child,  you  have  altered,"  was  the  alarmed 
answer. 

Esther  rose  and  gave  her  mother  a  long,  charged 
gaze.  "Look  at  me  again — through  and  through. 
I'm  all  blackness.  Make  no  mistake." 

Mrs.  Damon  glanced  at  her  daughter's  bloodless 
hands,  at  her  pale,  hunted  countenance.  For  a 
brief,  unhappy  moment  the  terrible  truth  caught  and 
held  her.  "No,  dear,"  she  said. 


1 86  ESTHER  DAMON 

"Yes,  yes,"  Esther  went  on  like  an  executioner, 
unable  longer  to  endure  the  anguish  of  the  victim 
whose  head  lay  bleeding  on  the  block.  "Yes,  that 
was  it.  You  thought  it.  Look  at  me  again.  If  I 
weren't  your  daughter  you'd  be  down  on  your  knees 
praying  for  me.  You'd  know  I  am  one  of  those  men 
have  slain." 

The  mother  did  not  loudly  lament,  nor  burst  into 
tears;  but  her  changed  shrivelled  countenance,  her 
sunken  eyes  in  which  stood  tears  that  did  not  fall, 
told  of  the  pain  she  kept  in  her  heart.  She  fixed  on 
the  girl  the  stare  of  the  dying.  Then  Esther  knew 
how  she  herself  must  have  looked  when  the  last  light 
of  her  faith  flickered  out.  She  knew,  too,  she  should 
always  recall  the  silence,  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  the 
rattle  of  a  passing  buggy,  the  striped  carpet,  the  tab 
let  of  prayers,  the  great  Bible,  the  barren  room,  the 
wave  in  the  grizzled  hair,  the  little  black  bonnet, 
the  black  dress  with  the  row  of  buttons,  the  bent 
head,  the  curved  back,  the  rising  and  falling  of  the 
bosom,  the  lifeless  hands  that  did  not  respond  to 
her  touch.  All  her  days  the  poor  woman  had 
sought  for  sinners.  This  is  how  it  was  when  she 
found  one  on  her  own  hearthstone. 

"Mother!"  Esther  struggled  with  words;  she 
seemed  to  have  no  right  to  speak.  "You  shouldn't 
have  tried  to  alter  the  will  of  God  when  I  was  a 
child.  Why  didn't  you  let  me  die  with  the  others? 
I've  given  you  only  sorrow." 

The  clock  ticked  on  noisily.  The  mother  did  not 
lift  her  head.  The  trembling,  speechless  girl  saw  the 


AS  YE  SOW  187 

gentle  lips  move  in  soundless  invocation.  Presently 
Mrs.  Damon  caressed  Esther's  long  plaits  of  hair. 
Then  she  looked  at  her  daughter,  and  said,  "It  isn't 
I  who  must  suffer  most.  It's  you,  dear  child  .  .  .  oh, 
my  baby !  The  other  day  you  were  my  baby  .  .  .  my 
little  baby!"  She  took  her  daughter  in  her  arms,  and 
the  beauty  of  what  passed  between  them  in  their 
silence  and  in  their  tears  was  never  to  end.  "But 
who,  Esther,"  Mrs.  Damon  began;  then  she  hesi 
tated  as  if  shrinking  from  the  long  train  of  inquiry 
the  question  involved,  "who  is  there  so  base?" 

Esther's  head  rested  on  her  mother's  knee,  and 
the  older  woman,  receiving  no  answer,  repeated  the 
question.  The  daughter  was  still  silent.  "Esther!" 
The  lips  of  the  girl  could  not  be  unlocked.  Never 
in  the  sad  eyes  of  Mrs.  Damon  was  there  so  rich  a 
consciousness  of  the  crucifixion  as  when  she  asked, 
"Who  is  he?" 

Esther  turned  away  her  head.  She  seated  herself 
on  a  low  wooden  stool  and  twisted  her  fingers. 
"Why  ask,  dear  mother?" 

"Don't  you  understand  it  must  be  known?" 

"Why?"  It  was  one  thing  to  give  herself  over  to 
her  mother.  It  was  quite  another  to  give  her  lover. 

Mrs.  Damon  journeyed  from  one  darkness  into 
another  darkness  even  more  profound.  She  seemed 
to  hold  out  her  hands  like  the  blind.  "When  you 
become  his  wife,  Esther." 

"I  can't  .  .  .  mother." 

"What  do  you  mean,  child?  You  can't  with 
honor  belong  to  any  other  man." 


1 88  ESTHER  DAMON 

"I  don't  wish  to  be  married  at  all." 

"Esther,  you  wish  to  be  an  honest  woman.  You 
can  only  be  that  as  the  wife  of  this  man." 

"Mother,  he  doesn't  want  me." 

The  poor  woman  was  laid  low  as  the  dust. 
"Surely  there  is  no  one  who  will  refuse  to  right  such 
a  wrong." 

"I  am  sorry  always  to  grieve  you,  mother,  .  .  .  but 
I  wouldn't  marry  him." 

Mrs.  Damon  raised  her  hands  and  moaned. 
"Years  ago  I  used  to  look  at  you  and  wonder  if  you 
could  be  my  daughter.  Again  I  ask,  can  you  be  my 
daughter?" 

"I  know,  poor  dearest  ...  all  the  reproaches 
and  humiliation  this  will  be  to  you,  but  I  am  your 
daughter.  .  .  .  Don't  make  me  creep  and  crawl 
and  be  despised  by  some  one  who  doesn't  want  me. 
I  can  never  be  his  wife." 

Mrs.  Damon  seemed  to  shrink  and  wither  as  she 
looked  at  her  child,  the  changeling  with  whom  she 
must  acquaint  herself.  "What,  Esther,  do  you  in 
tend  doing?" 

Esther  saw  a  form  coming  into  the  garden — the 
chill,  stern,  martial  form  of  the  Reverend  Hezekiah 
Damon.  "Father,"  she  cried  in  alarm,  as  if  finding 
herself  caught  in  the  whirl  of  two  meeting  currents, 
"Father  has  come  home."  She  sprang  quickly  to 
her  mother's  side  and  entreated,  "You  won't  tell 
him.  Promise  me  ...  I  can't  bear  that." 

Before  the  mother  could  answer  the  door  opened. 
The  minister  himself  stood  on  the  threshold.  Esther 


AS  YE  SOW  189 

feared.  Her  words  had  peopled  the  parsonage  with 
imperceptible  shapes — the  shapes  of  dishonor,  shame, 
disgrace,  ruin.  They  crowded  against  one  another 
in  the  little  sitting-room.  The  minister  felt  their 
presence.  With  a  mortal  chill  he  sensed  their  rela 
tion  to  his  child.  Esther's  back  was  toward  him — 
a  back  no  longer  rigid  with  pride,  but  relaxed  in 
humility.  He  turned  to  Mrs.  Damon  for  enlighten 
ment. 

"Why,  wife,  what  is  the  matter?  The  house 
seems  like  desolation."  The  shapes  blew  toward 
him  their  icy  breath. 

"It  is  desolation,  Hezekiah,"  Mrs.  Damon  moaned. 
"How  can  I  tell  you?  But  you  are  Esther's  father. 
...  I  need  your  strength  to  endure  this  calamity." 

"What  is  it,  Prudence?"  he  asked  sternly, though 
with  sinking  heart.  He  fixed  his  eyes  on  his  daugh 
ter's  back.  "Has  Esther  been  working  for  the  in 
fidel  again?" 

"If  it  were  only  that,"  answered  Mrs.  Damon. 
"It  isn't  ribbons  .  .  ." 

"Then  what  is  it?"  he  insisted. 

It  seemed  that  the  cry  would  always  echo  in  the 
room,  the  cry  of  Mrs.  Damon  as  her  voice  broke  and 
she  sobbed,  "Esther  isn't  a  good  girl  any  more.  .  .  . 
She  has  started  for  Hell." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ELDER  DAMON  thought  with  the  cruel  orthodoxy 
of  his  fathers,  untempered  by  higher  criticism.  He 
saw  Esther  with  their  eyes.  With  their  ears,  he 
heard  the  old-new  story  of  a  woman's  sin.  He 
thundered  at  his  daughter  with  their  wrath  and  bit 
terness;  but  the  girl  had  his  own  unyielding  will. 
She  would  not  give  him  the  name  of  her  lover.  Then 
the  white-haired  man,  more  a  father  than  a  priest  of 
God,  gave  way  and  faltered,  "I  wish  I  were  in  my 
grave!" 

Esther  could  not  remain  in  the  room.  The  stairs 
creaked  loudly  as  she  mounted  them  that  night  in 
her  starless  grief.  Words  scarce  felt  when  they 
dropped  from  her  father's  lips  now  scorched.  She 
whose  childhood  had  been  a  dream  of  martyrs  and 
saints  fell  lifeless  upon  her  bed.  She  was  stirred  to 
consciousness  by  a  violent  electric  storm  which  shook 
the  house  like  an  earthquake.  She  wished  the  par 
sonage  would  burn,  that  she  might  be  consumed  in 
its  ashes.  Even  during  the  storm  her  father  and 
mother  did  not  come  to  her.  When  the  thunder 
ceased  there  was  no  sound  from  below  save  the  pas 
sionate  prayers  of  Elder  Damon  and  his  wife. 

Unable  longer  to  endure  the  solitude,  Esther  went 
downstairs.  Her  parents  were  on  their  knees  in 

190 


AS  YE  SOW  191 

the  sitting-room,  side  by  side.  They  were  looking 
upward,  wringing  their  hands.  "  Don't,"  she  en 
treated,  touching  the  shoulder  of  each,  "don't  do 
that."  '  But  they  continued  in  supplication.  Bury 
ing  her  face  from  the  sight  of  their  pain,  she  rested 
her  head  on  the  great  Bible  on  the  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room. 

In  the  morning  light  the  parsonage  looked  as  if  it 
would  never  recover  from  what  it  had  seen.  A  large 
maple  tree  in  front  of  the  house  had  been  felled  by 
lightning.  To  the  preacher  that  tree  symbolized  his 
life;  to  Esther  it  symbolized  her  own.  The  father 
looked  at  his  daughter  in  new  horror.  Without  his 
training  to  what  depravity  might  she  not  have  sunk  ? 
Mrs.  Damon  wondered  wherein  the  girl's  upbringing 
was  at  fault;  but  she  had  so  withheld  herself  from 
gross  life  that  Esther  seemed  a  mystery  not  to  be 
approached  or  solved.  A  little  white  kitten  neared 
the  sinner  and  crept  away.  Even  the  tablets  of 
prayer  reproached  Esther.  The  old-fashioned  Bible 
assumed  a  personality,  and  hurled  at  her  its  laws. 

The  preacher  went  to  the  church,  opened  the 
doors,  and  returned,  while  Mrs.  Damon  set  about 
preparation  for  the  morning  service.  Esther  won 
dered  if  ever  again  she  should  enter  the  house  of 
God;  if  the  life  of  her  family  once  more  would  be 
hers.  The  father  and  mother — matchless  in  their 
harmony — now  rested  all  on  their  prayers  that,  in  the 
humble  little  church,  their  daughter  this  morning 
might  find  the  faith  which  had  strayed,  and  at  last 
retrace  her  way  to  salvation.  Elder  Damon  and 


192  ESTHER  DAMON 

his  wife,  Bibles  and  hymn-books  in  hand,  awaited 
Esther.  She  made  no  motion  to  join  them  until 
her  mother,  turning  to  her,  said  solicitously,  "Esther, 
you're  coming  with  us,  of  course." 

Even  this  stinted  sign  from  her  family  that  she  was 
not,  as  yet,  quite  estranged,  was  for  the  girl  a  pleasure. 
To  the  evident  satisfaction  of  her  parents  she  hast 
ened  to  fetch  her  hat.  After  all,  their  daughter  had 
not  entirely  abandoned  the  holy  traditions  of  the 
hearthstone.  She  was  not  in  brazen  rebellion  before 
the  little  community  of  Methodists.  She  did  not  re 
fuse  to  enter  the  house  of  their  faith.  That  Esther 
did  not  as  usual  take  up  her  Bible,  the  Bible  she  had 
carried  since  becoming  a  member  of  the  church,  was 
a  comforting  omission.  In  the  girl's  reprobate  state, 
such  contact  would  have  been  profanation  of  the 
sacred  book.  When  with  reverent  bowed  head  she 
followed  her  parents  down  the  board  sidewalk  to  the 
church,  even  the  sharp  eyes  of  Sister  Simpkins  noted 
nothing  unusual  in  the  little  procession. 

Brother  and  Sister  Simpkins,  smiling  as  if  in 
communion  with  the  shining  saints,  arrested  their 
steps  to  attend  the  arrival  of  their  pastor's  family. 
With  solemnity,  Elder  Damon  wrung  the  hand  of 
Brother  Simpkins.  While  Esther  passed  on  before, 
and  Mrs.  Damon  conversed  with  Sister  Simpkins, 
the  preacher  said,  "Brother,  pray  for  me  to-day. 
Pray  for  us  all,  especially  Esther." 

Brother  Simpkins  looked  at  the  still,  worn  face  of 
his  pastor.  Deeply  touched  by  this  humble  appeal, 
he  recalled  that  hideous  day  when  he  had  seen 


AS  YE  SOW  193 

Esther  flaunting  ribbons  and  lace.  His  lips  moved 
in  anxious  whisper,  "Esther  ain't  a  backslider?" 

Elder  Damon's  pride  of  religion  was  shattered 
when  with  motion  of  the  head,  he  made  the  admis 
sion  and  added,  "Tell  the  brethren  and  sisters  to 
pray  for  her.  We  need  your  help." 

It  was  the  call  of  a  master  to  his  loyal  disciple. 
"You  can  rely  on  me,  Brother  Damon." 

Presently  the  minister,  his  wife,  and  daughter, 
after  greeting  the  Killits,  the  Hames,  passed  into 
the  house  of  worship  and  took  their  customary 
seats.  The  sermon  wras  preceded  by  a  love-feast— 
a  spontaneous  expression  of  joy,  during  which  the 
minister  sat  in  the  congregation,  becoming  as  one  of 
the  humbler  servants  of  the  Lord.  It  fell  to  Brother 
Simpkins,  the  most  devout  lay  Methodist  in  Free 
dom,  to  lead  the  service.  He  began  by  singing  in  a 
high,  cracked  voice,  "Rescue  the  Perishing."  He 
was  joined  by  all  save  Esther,  whose  ark  of  the  cov 
enant  was  empty.  Several  sharp,  smiling  eyes  saw 
Mrs.  Damon  offer  her  daughter  a  hymn-book  and 
enjoin  her  to  take  part  in  the  service.  When  Esther 
allowed  the  volume  to  rest  untouched  on  her  knee,  for 
a  queer,  uncertain  moment  the  voices  wavered,  but 
Brother  Simpkins,  vocalizing  the  refrain  with  re 
doubled  stress,  rescued  the  worship  of  song  from 
interruption. 

To-day  Brother  Simpkins  was  in  armor.  He 
shrank  from  no  service  to  his  beloved  pastor.  After 
another  hymn,  he  rose  and  testified  to  his  redemption 
from  sin.  Far  back  in  his  youth  he  had  chewed 


194  ESTHER  DAMON 

tobacco,  smoked,  and  belonged  to  secret  societies. 
To-day  he  might  have  been  entirely  lost,  had  he 
not  in  early  manhood  given  himself  to  God.  Facing 
the  congregation  he  said,  "Don't  get  led  into  the 
sins  of  the  world.  Come  to  Jesus  while  you're 
young.  It  makes  life  so  easy.  I  just  laugh  all  day. 
I  don't  care  whether  it  rains  on  my  wheat.  I  know 
everything  will  come  out  all  right.  Now,  is  there 
any  young  folks  here  who  think  it  would  be  grand 
if  us  Methodists  would  put  on  more  style  ?  Is  there 
any  one  who  isn't  quite  sure  he's  saved?  Is  there 
any  one  who'd  like  to  be  prayed  for?" 

By  this  time  all  eyes  in  the  church  were  fixed  on 
Esther  seated  between  her  parents.  Her  mother 
touched  her  hand ;  her  father's  elbow  pressed  against 
her  arm.  To  the  girl  it  seemed  that  every  one  was 
looking  into  the  chapter  of  her  life  she  endeavored 
to  keep  closed.  The  eyes  of  the  congregation  were 
a  great  eye  staring  at  her.  "Esther,  ain't  you  got 
nothing  to  say?"  questioned  Brother  Simpkins, 
beaming  indulgence.  She  did  not  raise  her  glance, 
but  shook  her  head.  She  wondered  if  they  all  had 
read  her  secret. 

When  it  became  apparent  that  Brother  Simpkins' 
appeal  was  futile,  the  minister,  knelt  and  said,  "Let 
us  pray." 

For  the  first  time  in  public,  Esther  did  not  obey 
the  signal.  She  sat  with  obdurate,  squared  shoul 
ders.  At  sight  of  this  insurrection,  Esther  was  con 
scious  that  little  Hannah  Simpkins  peered  at  her 
from  the  angles  of  her  spectacles  as  if  asking  what 


AS  YE  SOW  195 

kind  of  a  person  the  daughter  of  their  pastor  could 
be.  Elder  Damon  proceeded  like  one  hurt  by  the 
wounds  from  the  cross  he  was  carrying.  He  con 
cluded  with  this  plea:  "Lead  her  back  to  Thee,  oh, 
Christ !  lead  her  back  to  Thee.  Break  up  the  heart 
of  Esther." 

Mrs.  Damon,  the  tears  standing  hot  in  her  eyes, 
moaned  prayerfully,  "Yes,  break  up  her  heart." 

Even  Carter  in  the  rear  of  the  church  echoed  the 
fervent  plea,  "Lord,  break  up  her  heart."  There 
was  a  reverberation  of  "Amens."  But  still  the  girl 
did  not  stir. 

At  length  the  minister  paused,  took  his  daughter's 
hand,  coerced  her  with  the  presence  of  almost  the 
entire  membership  of  the  church.  "Esther,  ask 
Jesus  to  bear  the  burden  of  your  sins.  Don't  sin 
against  the  Holy  Ghost,  my  daughter.  Mistrust 
your  strength.  Throw  it  away.  Don't  delay,  or  the 
devil,  hell,  death,  and  the  fearful  curse  of  God  will 
overtake  you." 

Mrs.  Damon  who  had  only  to  close  her  eyes  to 
feel  herself  surrounded  by  the  divine  presence, 
caressed  her  daughter's  left  hand,  and  exhorted, 
"Esther,  kneel,  and  ask  our  Father  to  forgive. 
Seek  eternal  life." 

Though  the  earnest  band  of  pilgrims  remained 
on  their  knees  and  their  prayers  were  never  so  long, 
in  the  girl  there  was  no  stirring  of  divine  impulse. 
She  still  remained  an  alien.  Their  way  was  not  her 
way.  Orme  had  thought  of  her  that  she  would  be 
intensely  right  or  intensely  wrong.  To-day  she  was 


196  ESTHER  DAMON 

intensely  wrong,  but  for  her  it  was  a  saving  grace 
that  she  was  intensely  honest.  One  by  one,  the  wor 
shippers  rose  from  their  knees,  the  older  folk  with 
heads  bowed  in  grief  that  their  beloved  pastor  and 
his  wife  should  be  so  afflicted. 

When  Brother  Simpkins  had  begun  speaking,  it 
was  with  mis-measurement  of  the  dire  condition  of 
Esther's  soul.  As  her  lost  state  made  itself  plain, 
over  all  hung  and  brooded  calamity.  With  resultant 
gravity  Brother  Simpkins  and  Brother  Hames  went 
about  their  office  of  offering  the  Love-Feast  of  bread 
and  water.  Their  boots  squeaked  as  they  passed 
up  the  main  aisle.  The  minister  partook  of  the 
divine  symbol;  but  Esther  declined  the  invitation. 
Thus  with  all  the  insolence  of  her  flaming  presence 
she  proclaimed  her  disaccord  with  the  service. 
Once  more  that  great  eye  of  the  congregation  cov 
ered  her,  now  in  horror.  The  church  had  never 
been  stirred  by  a  like  storm.  What  must  not  poor 
Brother  and  Sister  Damon  have  suffered  from  such 
a  monster?  These  Methodists  were  believers  who 
in  their  hearts  burned  unbelievers.  Hidden,  unused 
cells  of  their  puritanical  heredity  recalled  the  witches 
of  New  England.  Had  such  an  one  survived  in 
Freedom?  Could  Brother  Damon  preach  on  a  day 
like  this,  a  day  on  which  his  own  hearthstone  turned 
against  him?  They  all  looked  at  the  grim  face. 

Brother  Damon  was  of  extraordinary  rectitude  of 
character.  Brother  Damon  was  a  man  of  oak. 
Against  him  storms  might  beat  in  vain.  Brother 
Damon  would  preach.  Brother  Damon  emerged 


AS  YE  SOW  197 

from  his  pew  as  if  in  obedience  to  a  higher  impera 
tive  ;  went  down  the  aisle ;  mounted  the  little  promi 
nence  called  the  pulpit.  Brother  Damon's  text,  "It 
is  a  fearful  thing  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  an  angry 
God,"  caused  the  listeners  to  stir  in  their  seats. 

There  was  something  strange  and  unfamiliar  in 
the  minister's  manner.  His  face  was  hard  and 
bloodless  as,  in  a  tense  voice,  he  analyzed  sin.  De 
spite  his  Wesleyan  training  there  was  always  in  his 
sermons  the  severity  of  the  Calvinism  of  his  more 
remote  theological  ancestry.  The  preacher  subdi 
vided  his  theme  into  sins  against  the  family,  society, 
and  the  Creator.  He  fixed  the  responsibility  of  each 
individual  for  his  own  transgressions.  His  bitterest 
denunciation  was  for  the  sins  of  the  flesh,  for  their 
insidious  corruption  of  the  soul,  leaving  it  a  hideous, 
withered  thing  in  the  hands  of  an  angry  God.  As 
he  proceeded  in  his  discourse  he  drank  thirstily  of  a 
glass  of  water  standing  by  the  Bible.  The  minister's 
overwrought  manner,  his  grating  voice,  rising  in 
pitch,  held  the  congregation  rigid,  motionless.  He 
presented  terrifying  images  of  the  punishment  meted 
out  in  the  final  reckoning  to  victims  of  the  flesh. 
God  was  a  wrathful,  implacable  being  in  whose  laws 
there  were  no  loop-holes.  God  exacted  an  eye  for 
an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth.  In  one  picture,  more 
monstrous  than  another,  he  finally  likened  the  angry, 
pitiless  Creator  unto  a  man  holding  an  insect  over  a 
white-hot  flame,  watching  it  writhe  and  struggle  to 
escape  its  fearful  end  until  it  curls  up  into  a  black 
cinder  and  falls  into  the  fire. 


198  ESTHER  DAMON 

With  lids  lowered,  Esther  listened  to  her  father. 
She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  until  the  minister,  pausing 
dramatically,  fastened  his  gaze  on  his  daughter,  re 
vealing  the  particular  object  of  his  condemnation. 
Now  that  great  eye  stared  close  into  the  eyes  of  the 
girl.  Her  rebellious  conduct  had  released  her  father's 
words  from  all  restraint.  No  tenderness  could  be 
expected  by  her  who  belonged  to  him  by  ties  of 
blood.  The  preacher  justified  himself  by  recalling 
that  even  the  Master  had  said  His  brother  was  he 
who  did  as  He  did. 

"I  believe  that  our  Father  did  not  intend  us  to  be 
silenced  by  our  vile  earthly  affections  which  make 
truth  falter  on  our  lips.  Our  children  should  not 
be  loved  before  God.  When  we  find  in  our  house 
hold  the  wayward  child  which  is  the  abomination 
of  the  Lord  it  is  our  duty  to  make  of  him  an  ex 
ample." 

Esther's  lips  parted  in  amazement;  her  cheeks 
grew  livid.  Mrs.  Damon's  mouth  sagged  at  the 
corners.  She  seized  her  daughter's  hand.  The 
preacher  had  proscribed  his  own  happiness.  He 
did  not  scruple  to  inflict  misery  on  others.  Heavily 
disappointed  in  his  child,  he  put  aside  parental  love 
as  a  material,  detachable  object.  "I,  as  your  shep 
herd  share  this  shame  which  has  come  upon  our 
church.  I  blame  myself,  because  I  have  made  an 
idol  of  my  affection  for  the  disobedient,  rebellious 
girl.  I  have  had  unknowing  pride  in  her  very  fair 
ness  which  brought  her  to  sin  and  disgrace. 

Esther's  hymn-book  fell  with  a  loud  noise  to  the 


AS  YE  SOW  199 

floor.  Elder  Damon's  steely  eyes  gleamed  in  their 
sockets  like  lamps  in  cellars.  With  some  of  the  ter 
rible  vehemence  of  the  Master  when  He  denounced 
the  Pharisees  as  whited  sepulchres  and  hissing  ser 
pents,  the  minister  continued  in  what  seemed  to  him 
the  higher  service:  "My  brethren,  make  no  idols  of 
clay  lest  they  turn  your  lives  to  torment,  lest  the 
objects  of  your  worship  totter  and  fall.  Put  not 
your  trust  in  your  own  flesh  and  blood  lest  one  day 
you  look  into  the  face  of  your  daughter  and  find 
her  a  strange  woman." 

Esther  had  withdrawn  her  hand  from  her  mother's 
clasp.  She  sat  tensely  gripping  the  back  of  the 
low  seat  before  her.  At  her  father's  last  words,  in 
a  storm  of  fury,  she  rose  to  leave  the  church.  The 
minister,  recollecting  her  iniquity  and  seeing  her 
again  publicly  declare  herself  the  foe  of  his  house 
hold,  was  driven  to  an  entire  loss  of  self-control. 
He  thundered  after  his  daughter  words  like  the 
primal  curse  given  the  first  transgressor:  "Woe  unto 
adulterers,  for  their  offspring  shall  curse  them." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ELDER  DAMON'S  violence  carried  him  farther  than 
he  had  intended.  Esther's  senses,  straying  back  to 
equilibrium,  recalled  one  by  one  his  condemnatory 
words.  Again  they  cracked  brutally  in  her  ears. 
She  should  always  hear  them.  The  first  inhuman 
truth  of  the  world  had  issued  from  her  father's  lips. 
How  the  horror-stricken  eye  of  the  congregation 
followed  her.  How  it  penetrated,  probed;  would 
have  crowded  its  way  into  the  hurt,  into  the  passion 
of  the  scarlet  woman's  soul.  They  were  all  against 
her.  Everything  that  touched  her — traditions,  up 
bringing,  family,  friends,  church — everything  near 
and  far  was  against  her.  When  her  father  entered 
the  house  she  knew  it  was  blood  against  blood. 
Each  held  the  other  for  a  foe. 

In  silence  the  minister  went  to  the  chimney-place 
behind  the  stove,  and  took  a  small  book  in  which  were 
enrolled  the  names  of  the  church  members.  Hers 
was  the  last  there  inscribed:  "Esther  Damon,  aged 
twelve,  baptized  in  Freedom,  December,  1869."  She 
had  been  carried  to  the  altar  in  her  father's  arms,  his 
last  convert  in  Freedom.  Since  that  day  her  name 
had  stood  alone  on  the  leaf. 

Mrs.  Damon,  perceiving  the  drift  of  her  husband's 
procedure,  tried  to  stop  him.  Laying  an  entreating 


AS  YE  SOW  201 

hand  on  his,  she  remonstrated,  "Hezekiah,  you're 
only  a  servant  of  the  Lord.  Ought  you  decide  who 
is  bad  and  who  is  good?  The  church  should  pro 
tect  those  who  stray." 

The  preacher  paused,  but  looking  like  a  sponsor 
for  righteousness,  he  said,  "My  highest  duty  is  as 
custodian  of  the  honor  of  my  church.  Our  own 
daughter  is  its  first  unworthy  member."  Then  with 
resolute  manner  he  severed  the  page  from  the  book, 
tore  the  leaf  into  fragments,  and  cast  them  into  the 
stove.  For  Esther,  this  act  was  the  last  degree  of 
humiliation,  the  breaking  of  a  traitor's  sword. 

Mrs.  Damon  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
but  only  to  intensify  her  mental  vision.  Presently 
she  turned  to  the  preacher  a  white,  afflicted  counte 
nance.  "Hezekiah,  when  you  wrote  Esther's  name 
in  the  church  book,  Jesus  wrote  it  in  His  heart. 
Whatever  happens,  her  name  will  always  be  there.  I 
shall  always  have  hope  for  her." 

Elder  Damon  shook  his  head  doggedly.  "No, 
wife,  it's  all  over.  I  warned  her.  Neither  you  nor 
I  can  stay  the  hand  of  God."  The  minister  fre 
quently  confused  his  vetoes  with  those  of  the  higher 
power.  "The  sinner  must  suffer  the  consequences 
of  sin." 

For  the  first  time,  censure  of  her  husband  rose 
to  the  lips  of  the  distressed  woman.  With  severity 
she  quoted:  "'What  do  ye  more  than  others?'"  and 
then  more  gently  she  said,  "Hezekiah,  you  behave 
like  one  unknowing  the  mercy  and  love  of  God. 
Christians  must  meet  misfortunes  more  nobly  than 


202  ESTHER  DAMON 

others.  We  must  show  the  truth  of  the  Master  not 
in  words,  but  in  conduct." 

For  a  second  only  the  minister  wavered;  then 
turning  to  Esther  he  said:  "You  deny  Jesus.  You 
refused  His  body  to-day.  You  think  you're  above 
the  Ten  Commandments,  but  you've  got  to  come 
back  to  them,  you  and  this  wicked  world,  or  perish 
in  lust." 

"You  think  you're  wounding  me,  father,"  the 
girl  faintly  protested.  "You  are  only  wounding 
yourself." 

"Yes,  Hezekiah,"  seconded  Mrs.  Damon.  "Esther 
is  right.  Don't  you  remember  what  the  Good  Book 
says ?  'Hereby  perceive  we  the  love  of  God,  because 
He  laid  down  His  life  for  us:  and  we  ought  to  lay 
down  our  lives  for  the  brethren.'  Then  how  much 
more  should  we  do  for  Esther?  She  is  the  child  of 
our  prayers.  Forget  our  humiliation  and  grief. 
Think  of  what  she  must  suffer.  Let  us  keep  her  here 
with  us  and  in  the  church." 

Esther  looked  up  in  quick  plea.  "  Yes,  let  me  stay, 
father,  I  won't  do  any  harm." 

The  preacher's  face  was  like  a  rock.  "'No,  you 
still  cling  to  the  deadly  sweetness  of  the  flesh.  Your 
sin  and  our  faith  can't  live  in  the  same  house.  Your 
place  is  with  the  father  of  your  child." 

Esther  suddenly  rose.  Her  mother  started  tow 
ard  her,  but  her  father  thrust  himself  between  them. 
This  act  clarified  the  girl's  thoughts.  Esther  looked 
about  the  home  of  dear  associations,  now  a  vanished 
enchantment.  How  strange  that  she  herself  had 


AS  YE  SOW  203 

not  been  the  first  to  recognize  her  right  to  dwell  here 
as  annulled!  But  where  could  she  go?  Inexperi 
enced,  untravelled,  she  thought  only  of  Freedom. 
That  was  her  world.  Bewildered  by  the  strange  as 
pect  of  life,  suddenly  there  came  to  her  a  sharp, 
unmistakable  perception  of  the  way  she  was  to 
follow.  Her  deep,  strange  eyes  glowed  with  new 
hope.  "No,"  she  answered  with  quick  decision, 
"I'll  not  go  to  one  who  doesn't  want  me,  but  I 
have  friends." 

"My  darling  child,"  interposed  the  mother,  "you 
don't  know  the  world.  I  wish  you  did  have  friends, 
but  Dr.  Yates  and  his  family— 

"It  isn't  the  Yates  family,"  corrected  Esther. 
"It's  Mr.  Orme." 

"The  infidel,"  exclaimed  the  minister. 

"A  stranger!"  added  Mrs.  Damon. 

"Yes,"  Esther  returned  defiantly,  "I'm  no  rela 
tion  of  Mr.  Orme.  He  doesn't  believe  Jesus  died 
for  him,  and  may  be  he  is  wicked.  Perhaps  that's 
why  he  doesn't  mind  me.  He'll  give  me  work  and 
shelter." 

Stung  by  the  implied  reproach,  Elder  Damon 
stormed,  "I  forbid  a  woman  like  you  to  criticise  me 
or  my  religion.  Go  to  the  infidel.  Evil  is  a  magnet 
for  evil." 

Mrs.  Damon  touched  her  husband's  arm  with  her 
knotted  saffron  hand.  "Don't  say  that,  Hezekiah. 
You're  speaking  hastily.  Think  of  the  others  taken 
despite  our  prayers.  Don't  pass  the  same  sentence 
on  Esther." 


204  ESTHER  DAMON 

The  minister  pressed  his  hand  convulsively  against 
his  forehead.  "Death  would  have  been  better  than 
this.  I  don't  want  to  touch  or  see  her.  I  can't 
breathe  the  same  air  with  her.  She's  a  beautiful 
flower  with  a  serpent  in  her  heart." 

"Don't  send  her  blindfolded  into  the  wilderness 
of  the  world,  Hezekiah,"  pleaded  the  mother.  "She 
will  stumble  and  fall.  I'll  never  give  her  up.  I 
want  her  here  with  me.  I  want  to  soften  the  jeers 
of  the  world.  I  want  to  be  with  her  when  she  needs 
a  friend.  Poor  broken- winged  bird!  .  .  .  I'll  take 
care  of  her  and  her  child." 

To  the  father  it  seemed  that  a  sombre  ghost  had 
stalked  into  the  room,  a  ghost  which  would  always 
prowl  and  wail  about  the  house — the  ghost  of  his 
daughter's  lost,  decent  life.  "How  can  you  speak 
of  such  a  thing,  Prudence  ?  Can  you  watch  her  alter 
and  grow  hideous  ?  Can  you  see  her  shame  multiply 
until  there  are  two  reproaches  instead  of  one?  I 
can't." 

"Then  that  is  where  your  faith  breaks  down,  my 
husband,  'He  that  loveth  not  knoweth  not  God.' 
That  is  why  you  don't  convert  sinners  in  Freedom." 

Elder  Damon  had  long  thought  only  on  the  sins 
of  others.  In  his  austere  way  of  living  he  was  un 
mindful  that  there  were  sins  of  the  heart  as  well  as 
sins  of  the  flesh,  and  of  these  former  were  his.  "It 
may  be,"  he  answered,  "that  I'm  weak,  Prudence. 
I'm  only  human,  and  I  can't  be  accused  every  day 
by  the  presence  of  my  daughter  as  a  Magdalene. 
If  that's  weakness  I  confess  I'm  weak." 


AS  YE  SOW  205 

Esther  was  at  the  door,  her  hand  on  the  knob. 
With  shaken  voice  she  spoke  to  her  father:  "I'm 
sinful,  a  disgrace  to  myself  and  you  both.  ...  I 
suppose  I  deserve  all  the  blame  I  shall  have,  but, 
father,  .  .  .  you  always  preached  forgiveness  of 
sin.  Our  first  disagreement  came  because  you 
wanted  me  to  go  as  a  missionary.  Did  you  intend 
me  to  sacrifice  my  life  to  teach  the  heathen  to  drive 
their  children  into  the  streets?" 

All  self-command  gone,  the  minister  cried  furi 
ously:  "  Don't  dare  argue  with  me.  You're  a  fallen 
woman.  In  the  Scripture,  the  city  of  Meroz  lives 
only  through  the  curse  launched  against  it.  You'll 
be  recalled  only  through  your  sin." 

When  her  husband  lost  himself  in  anger,  Mrs.  Da 
mon  sometimes  interrupted  by  singing  a  hymn. 
Before  he  had  completed  his  sentence  the  quavering 
voice  burst  out  in  song.  The  minister  listened  with 
bowed  head,  but  his  soul  gave  no  reply.  Still  in 
exorable  he  said  to  his  daughter,  "You'll  suffer." 

"I  can't  suffer  any  more  than  you  have  made  me, 
father,"  she  answered.  "I'm  not  afraid.  I  know 
what's  coming — misery  and  shame."  Then  she  fal 
tered;  but  she  was  in  the  thrall  of  a  strange,  sacri 
ficial  ardor  which  made  her  more  than  herself,  which 
inspired  her  to  go  out  eagerly  to  her  expiation.  She 
raised  her  fine,  white  face  which  seemed  to  have 
strayed  from  an  alien  age  into  this.  "I'll  try  to  bear 
it  ...  whatever  comes." 

Even  after  her  destruction,  Esther  seemed  stronger 
than  he.  The  father  looked  at  his  daughter  in  a 
kind  of  awe.  There  was  a  mystery  about  her. 


206  ESTHER  DAMON 

What  was  it  ?  The  mother,  in  her  infinite  tenderness, 
answered,  "  Esther,  poor  Esther.  You  think  you're 
a  woman,  but  you're  only  a  big,  proud  child.  You 
need  protection  more  than  ever.  My  home  is  always 
your  home,  dear." 

It  was  harder  for  Esther  to  suffer  the  sweet  mercy 
of  her  mother  than  the  harsh  injustice  of  her  father. 
She  swallowed  and  choked  as  she  stammered,  "It 
hurts  me  to  see  you  so  good,  mother,  but  father  is 
right  .  .  .  there  is  no  place  for  me  here.  I'd  like  to 
stay,  .  .  .  but  I  can't  without  hurting  you.  You 
mustn't  share  my  shame  ...  or  try  to  excuse  me. 
I  want  to  go  away.  ...  I  can't  endure  the  thought  of 
your  eyes  following  me.  I'll  work.  Never  attempt 
to  see  me  again.  .  .  .  I'll  never  be  the  same  again." 

Just  as  on  the  eve  of  battle  sometimes  the  highest 
bravery  suddenly  shows  a  fluctuation,  so  Esther  cow 
ered  before  the  future.  But  finally  she  opened  the 
door.  When  the  hour  of  separation  came  the  minis 
ter  relented  a  little.  For  a  moment  he  forgot  pride 
of  spirit  and  remembered  his  child.  He  saw  her  as 
she  was,  pale,  wan,  broken,  yet  indomitable.  In 
softened  tone  he  made  a  final  peace  offering:  "Esther, 
.  .  .  perhaps  I've  been  too  harsh.  Tell  me  the 
name  of  that  monster  .  .  .  marry  the  man.  Give 
your  child  a  name.  .  .  .  Spare  me  and  my  church 
this  terrible  disgrace,  and  I'll  overlook  what  you've 
done.  With  God's  help  I'll  forget." 

Knowing  her  father  as  she  did,  Esther  realized 
that  words  had  never  passed  his  lips  costing  him 
such  pain.  But  still  determined  to  shield  the  lover, 
she  answered,  "You  call  him  a  monster  and  you  ask 


AS  YE  SOW  207 

me  to  marry  him.  ...  It  hurts  me  as  much  to  say 
it  as  it  does  you  to  hear  it,  but  I  can't,  father.  I'll 
live  without  any  thought  of  being  a  wife.  I'll  live  for 
myself,  like  a  man." 

The  minister  interpreted  the  girl's  disjointed  syl 
lables  as  flagrant  disobedience.  He  waved  his  arms 
in  command.  "Then  go.  You're  unteachable. 
Learn  for  yourself.  ...  I  have  no  daughter." 

When  Esther's  foot  was  on  the  threshold  Mrs. 
Damon  hurried  toward  her.  "If  Esther  goes  I  go 
with  her.  You  shan't  send  her  away,  Hezekiah." 

Elder  Damon  gripped  his  wife's  hand.  "Pru 
dence,  sit  down."  Then  he  closed  the  door  vio 
lently  that  no  further  words  might  pass  between 
him  and  the  culprit. 

Elder  Damon  stood  at  the  window,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  recreant.  Her  every  step  seemed  to  be  on 
his  dull,  aching  heart.  He  was  old  and  broken.  At 
the  end  of  the  block  Esther  turned  toward  the  four 
corners  of  the  village.  Then  her  father  noted  the 
barren  trees,  the  leaves  whirling  on  the  grass,  and 
that  life  had  moved  far  toward  winter.  "That  girl 
has  the  faith  in  herself  which  only  the  devil  can  have," 
he  exclaimed,  when  the  gray  bonnet  disappeared.  "  I 
believe  she's  possessed.  Don't  utter  her  name  to  me, 
Prudence.  We  must  never  see  her  again.  I  want 
never  to  see  this  house  again.  I  want  never  to  see 
Freedom  again.  I  will  abandon  it.  'Whosoever 
shall  not  hear  your  words,  depart  ye  out  of  that  house 
or  city.'" 


BOOK  IV 
THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL 


Natheless  the  woman  did  not  rise; 
Lifted  only  her  shame-red  eyes, 
Gazing  at  Jesus  in  helpless  wise: 

"Death  and  shame  await  me  whether 
I  turn  me  hither  or  turn  me  thither: 
Go,  sayest  thou;  but,  Master,  whither?" 

Did  Jesus  leave  her  lying  low? 
Gladly  the  puzzled  world  would  know 
Whither  the  Master  bade  her  go. 

—WILLIAM  HERBERT  CARRUTH. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

ESTHER  went  on,  sustained  by  consciousness  of 
inner  power  in  reserve.  But  she  realized  Freedom 
never  before  had  borne  such  an  aspect,  nor  had  the 
autumn  winds  so  stung  her  bare  hands.  The  streets 
were  almost  deserted.  Hannah  Simpkins,  a  short, 
podgy,  red-faced  girl  of  her  own  age,  was  the  first 
person  she  met.  Hannah  had  been  present  in  the 
morning  at  the  church.  When  she  saw  Esther  she 
took  a  quick  breath,  trembled,  and  hurried  on  her 
errand.  Poor  Hannah!  She  had  suddenly  grown 
young  as  Esther  felt  herself  old.  Two  lads  on  their 
way  to  fish  made  a  ribald  remark  intended  for  Esther's 
ears.  They  knew.  She  saw  a  conference  of  sun- 
bonnets  over  a  fence.  The  sunbonnets  knew.  Ira 
Wherritt,  who  was  just  leaving  his  store,  loitered  on 
the  steps,  looked  at  her  with  something  which  in  his 
youth  had  been  his  rudimentary  idea  of  a  leer.  He 
knew. 

Esther  stood  at  the  Four  Corners  for  the  first  time 
since  Harry's  marriage.  It  had  taken  a  month  for 
this  hour  to  arrive;  but  it  was  here.  The  shades  of 
all  the  stores  were  drawn.  The  windows  of  the  Ivy 
Green  were  curtained  like  eyes  that  dared  not  meet 
her  own.  Harry  was  on  the  other  side  of  those  cur 
tains.  Being  even  thus  near  him  registered  itself  in 
her  heavy  heart-beats.  The  lame  hostler  appeared 


212  ESTHER  DAMON 

in  a  buggy  before  the  tavern  and  waited  until  Harry 
emerged  from  the  front  door  to  take  possession  of  the 
reins.  It  was  some  time  before  Clancy  saw  Esther. 
Then  he  lighted  a  cigarette,  flicked  a  fly  from  his 
horse's  head,  and  turned  the  buggy  with  his  back 
toward  her.  That  was  the  lover  who  had  brought 
her  here. 

Soon  there  came  a  pink  and  white,  fragile,  flutter 
ing  girl  whom  Esther  recognized  as  Stella.  Hus 
band  and  wife  drove  away  together.  Then  Esther 
felt  her  strength  crumble.  Something  throbbed  and 
throbbed  in  her  brain  as  on  the  night  of  the  marriage; 
but  she  had  no  resentment,  no  desire  to  proclaim  her 
wrong,  no  heated,  savage  jealousy — so  far  beyond 
herself  had  she  loved.  "At  least,"  was  her  thought, 
accompanied  by  a  sigh,  "it's  best  everything  is  over." 
But  she  soon  realized  that  all  was  not  over.  Noth 
ing  was  ever  over.  She  had  merely  taken  a  little  step 
toward  death,  and  even  now  her  effort  was  biting 
its  print  into  her  countenance. 

Before  the  pharmacy  the  clerk  was  recounting  to 
the  druggist  an  amusing  story.  Conversation  was 
suspended  as  she  appeared.  The  men  looked  at 
her  quizzically,  made  a  feint  of  lifting  their  hats. 
When  she  had  passed  there  was  laughter — the  laughter 
of  men  with  unclean  thoughts  in  their  minds  and 
unclean  words  on  their  lips.  They  knew.  She  had 
intended  to  trample  all  this  under  her  feet,  but  her 
strong,  untried  will  was  vanquished  when  she  found 
herself  a  joke.  Could  no  one  see  what  she  was 
undergoing? 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         213 

In  front  of  the  prosperous,  white  residence  of  Ira 
Wherritt  she  saw  Alice  Orme.  This  matron  passed 
through  the  gate,  closed  it  with  accusation  and  hast 
ened  into  the  house.  That  was  what  Mrs.  Orme 
thought  of  her.  Esther  wondered  how  Mrs.  Orme's 
husband  would  look.  Would  his  large  tolerance 
desert  him?  Soon  the  girl  realized  she  was  running 
the  gantlet  of  a  barricade  of  curious,  vivisecting  eyes 
concealed  behind  the  shutters  and  the  curtains  of  the 
houses  she  passed.  All  those  eyes  knew.  There  was 
naught  save  her  disgrace  and  her  denunciation  in  the 
air.  She  became  frightened ;  she  wished  to  hide.  All 
the  world  was  sneering  her  back  to  her  home.  But 
there  was  the  real  furnace.  This  mockery,  this 
brutality  would  pursue  not  only  her,  but  her  parents 
whom  she  had  covered  with  shame.  There  could 
be  no  wavering,  no  retreat.  The  dreadful  deed  she 
had  done  demanded  dreadful  courage.  War  was 
on  between  her  and  society.  It  would  be  life-long. 
She  wondered  if  she  was  strong  enough  for  it. 

As  she  crept  up  the  hill  she  thought  of  other 
women,  outcasts  like  herself;  others  who  wept  alone 
in  secret  places,  for  whose  sorrows  none  sorrowed. 
What  became  of  them?  If  only  there  were  one  she 
could  talk  with.  But  how,  in  Freedom,  where  even 
the  winds  were  freighted  with  discretion,  could  she 
find  another  woman  in  whom  self-preservation  had 
not  been  the  sovereign  instinct? 

Before  she  reached  the  summit  of  the  steep  incline 
she  saw  Orme  already  at  the  entrance  to  his  gate. 
Till  now  she  had  known  no  dread  of  asking  him  for 


214  ESTHER  DAMON 

work.  This  purpose  had  been  her  mainstay  in  say 
ing  good-by  to  her  home,  in  the  unfriendly  walk 
through  the  village.  But  her  courage  had  been 
overdrawn.  She  began  to  wonder  whether  he,  like 
the  other  men,  would  laugh  at  her.  If  not,  would  he 
dare  offer  her  shelter  and  once  more  affront  the  solid 
ified  opinion  of  the  community?  Even  if  he  would, 
ought  she  to  ask  this  of  him  ?  Had  she  a  right  to  in 
volve  him  in  the  knotted  consequences  of  her  mis 
conduct  ? 

Since  he  and  she  last  met  it  had  come  to  her  ears 
that  he  gave  employment  and  refuge  to  Thomas 
O'Shea  who  had  served  a  year  in  the  county  jail 
for  robbing  Wherritt's  store  to  buy  whiskey  at  the 
Ivy  Green.  The  recollection  of  this  toleration,  the 
tempest  in  the  village  it  occasioned,  stimulated  hope 
in  Esther.  She  judged  her  position  with  her  own 
sex  to  balance  that  of  a  thief  among  men.  Perhaps 
there  would  be  an  asylum  for  her.  However,  as  she 
approached  Orme,  the  only  person  of  whom  she  had 
no  dread,  she  slackened  her  pace. 

Robert  waited  at  the  gate.  Like  a  benediction  it 
came  upon  her  that  he  was  waiting  for  her.  There 
was  no  mistaking  his  profound  pity  for  the  infirm. 
He  and  she  stood  for  a  long  moment  looking  as  if 
each  expected  the  other  to  give  a  cue  for  conversa 
tion.  Orme  had  the  spiritual  gift  of  putting  himself 
in  the  place  of  others.  He  made  no  circumstance 
of  her  thus  coming  to  him.  He  bent  toward  her 
his  fine,  kind  eyes.  Of  course  he  knew. 

Esther  had  not  seen  him  for  some  months.    Dur- 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         215 

ing  this  interval  his  countenance  had  so  bloomed 
with  noble  sympathies  that  now  his  comprehension 
hurt  her  more  than  the  derision  of  the  village.  Let 
others  understand  what  they  would;  for  him  there 
should  have  been  no  black  page.  His  belief,  his 
faith  alone  mattered.  Why  had  she  not  done  some 
sublime  thing  for  him? 

"I've  been  thinking  of  you  to-day,  Esther,"  Rob 
ert  began,  trying  to  make  it  easier  for  her.  "I  hope 
you  are  coming  back  to  work.  It's  great  selfishness 
on  my  part,  I  know;  but  no  one  has  ever  been  able 
to  fill  your  place." 

It  was  precisely  his  fine  concern  for  her  which  an 
nihilated  Esther's  resolution  to  return  to  his  employ. 
She  turned  toward  the  lake  lying  there  before  them 
with  its  ever-present  invitation  to  her.  "No,  Mr. 
Orme,"  she  answered.  "I'm  stopping  a  second  to 
catch  my  breath.  Thank  you  for  your  offer,  but  I 
shan't  be  able  to  come  back.  I've  given  up  all  hope 
of  going  to  college." 

She  resumed  her  journey  like  a  homeless  pilgrim 
who  had  paused  by  the  wayside  for  a  glass  of  water. 
For  a  brief  interval  he  watched  her  melancholy  fig 
ure.  "How  very  bad  good  people  are,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "Why  didn't  I  save  her  from  her  foolish 
mother?  Why  didn't  I  make  a  fight  for  her  liberty 
and  send  her  to  college?" 

He  would  help  her  yet.  To  stay  behind  was 
desertion.  He  hastened  after  her,  and  entreated, 
"I  don't  mean  to  intrude;  but  I  wish  you  would  re 
consider,  Esther.  Your  work  is  invaluable.  Re- 


2i6  ESTHER  DAMON 

member,  to-morrow,  next  week,  or  next  month,  any 
time.  .  .  .  I'll  be  very  happy  to  have  you." 

"Thank  you,  but  I  shall  never  return,"  she 
answered.  "Everything  is  to  be  different  now." 

Esther  so  effectually  dammed  the  channel  of 
Orme's  consideration  that  there  was  nothing  for 
him  but  withdrawal.  He  turned  back  reluctantly, 
leaving  her  to  hold  her  course  as  she  had  elected. 
The  farther  the  girl  proceeded,  to  an  intenser  degree 
did  the  lake  become  a  great,  irresistible  magnet 
drawing  her — a  poor,  impotent  fleck  of  base  metal. 
Its  water  was  a  soft,  warm  mother-embrace  to  shelter 
her  from  the  cold  face  of  the  world  and  give  her 
slumber.  When  she  turned  into  the  lane  leading 
from  the  highway  to  the  lake,  she  espied  a  dust-cov 
ered  branch  of  golden-rod  which  in  its  abundant 
bloom  had  been  plucked  by  a  hostile  hand  and  left 
to  die.  She  picked  it  up  and  carried  it  with  her. 

As  Esther  found  herself  at  the  opening  in  the 
willows  she  gazed  into  the  water  in  which  she  used 
to  wade  as  a  child.  The  yellow  leaves  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  lake  fascinated  her.  The  girl  became 
conscious  of  a  great  power  within  her — death.  She 
looked  back  at  the  village.  She  had  conquered  the 
mockers.  They  didn't  dare  die.  She  did,  and  dis 
grace  would  be  done  with.  Her  father  had  said 
death  was  better  than  shame ;  but  the  saintly,  suffer 
ing  countenance  of  her  mother  deterred  her  for  a 
moment.  Esther  could  hear  the  plaintive  voice, 
"Ah,  daughter,  you  are  dying  because  you  don't 
dare  live."  It  was  true:  her  bravery  was  cowardice. 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         217 

Yet  why  should  she  live?  What  could  she  be  but 
a  disgrace  to  her  parents,  a  village  legend  gloomy  as 
the  legend  of  Meroz? 

Amidst  the  death  in  life  of  her  desires,  one,  how 
ever,  survived  and  clamored ;  the  wish  again  to  pene 
trate  the  forest  where  every  leaf  lisped  syllables  of 
her  love.  Of  the  forest  alone  Esther  would  take 
leave. 

She  retraced  her  steps  among  the  aisles  of  the  mag 
nificent  old  elm  and  maple  trees  where  that  great 
fleeting  glory,  her  love,  had  been  born;  where  it  had 
breathed  with  bliss  equalled  in  intensity  only  by  its 
desperate  insecurity.  One  by  one  its  splendid  scarlet 
images  wandered  out  of  the  past  until  she  forgot  that, 
for  her  lover,  all  had  been  transient  as  the  wooing  of 
birds.  His  love  was  dead  as  the  leaves  under  foot 
which  in  the  springtime  had  been  its  witnesses.  And 
yet,  she  reflected,  its  life  still  survived  in  her  own  life. 
With  new  despair  she  realized  that  in  her  self -decreed 
destruction  she  could  not  depart  alone.  She  was 
companioned  always.  Seating  herself  on  a  mossy  log 
where  often  she  had  awaited  Harry,  so  vivid  was  her 
fancy  that  she  spoke  aloud  as  to  one  who  heard, 
"You  can't  ask  me  to  live,  can  you,  my  son?  You 
can't  ask  your  mother  to  endure  a  lifetime  of  torture? 
Now  we'll  be  always  together.  We'll  leave  the  world 
which  wants  us  out  of  it.  You  forgive  me,  don't 
you?" 

Thus  Orme  found  Esther  looking  straight  ahead, 
sometimes  stooping  impetuously  to  seize  handfuls 
of  dry  leaves,  to  tear  them  and  absently  drop  them. 


218  ESTHER  DAMON 

When  he  heard  her  muttered  words  he  said,  "For 
give  me  for  coming.  I  thought  you  were  speaking  to 
some  one — were  you?" 

As  she  raised  her  head  she  flung  at  him  the  entire 
desperate  truth,  "Yes,  to  my  son." 

Robert  forbore  all  questions  and  said  simply, 
"Don't  go  down  before  these  people,  Esther.  You're 
too  good  for  that." 

His  kindliness  of  glance  and  utterance  trans 
formed  her  distress  into  sobs.  He  seated  himself  by 
her  side  and  waited,  his  eyes  closing  in  pain  as  she 
gave  her  grief  to  the  air.  Once  he  timidly  touched 
her  hand,  but  withdrew  it.  After  her  pulses  had 
throbbed  themselves  into  quiet,  she  said,  feebly  brush 
ing  at  her  eyes,  "You  must  go  back  to  your  house,  Mr. 
Orme." 

"When  you  do.  ...  I  came  for  you,"  he  quietly 
insisted. 

"No,  no!"  she  burst  out. 

"You're  not  going  to  be  a  runaway  from  life, 
Esther." 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you're  thinking  of,  Mr.  Orme 
.  .  .  but  you  can't  save  me.  I'll  come  back  here 
to-morrow,  the  next  day  or  the  next.  We  don't 
want  to  remain  in  a  world  where  every  one  hates 
every  one  else." 

His  voice  soothed  her ;  his  presence  healed.  "  Don't 
judge  the  world  by  a  few  people,  Esther.  There  is 
kindness  even  here  in  Freedom." 

"We  haven't  found  it.  ...  My  son  and  I  have 
a  right  to  die." 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         219 

"But  why  give  death  such  an  easy  victory?"  he 
asked  gently.  "Why  not  resist?" 

"Resist?  .  .  .  what  is  there  left  of  me  for  resist 
ance?  I'm  a  poor,  miserable  failure." 

"So  are  we  all,  Esther." 

"Not  you.    You're  strong." 

"It's  good  of  you  to  forget,  .  .  .  but  I'm  the 
historic  failure  of  Freedom.  We  all  know  that. 
Yet  it  is  well  to  know  what  failure  is.  Misfortune 
proves  us.  Esther,  won't  you  prove  yourself?" 

Orme's  words  were  for  her  strength,  and  her  body 
cried  out  to  live.  "You  can  say  that.  You're  a 
man.  What  chance  is  there  for  a  woman — a  woman 
like  me — to  struggle  with  the  world  which  has  already 
condemned  her?" 

"Existence  is  battle,  Esther.  Make  yourself 
stronger  than  the  world.  The  saints  of  to-day  don't 
run  away  from  it.  They  conquer  it.  You're  very 
young  to  be  asked  to  do  this;  but  the  victory  will 
be  all  the  greater.  You'll  find  unkindness,  but  for 
give.  People  don't  know  better.  Don't  lament  or 
regret.  Live  your  part.  Live  it  for  the  noblest  in 
you." 

"The  noblest?"   she  interrupted  incredulously. 

"Yes,  you're  good  enough  for  anything." 

That  Orme  who  had  lived  through  years  of  dark 
ness  saw  for  her  light,  that  he  discovered  a  fineness 
in  her — this  for  Esther  was  nourishment  and  warmth. 
He  seemed  a  great  priest  of  good.  "You  were 
created  to  help  others,"  she  answered.  "How  good 
you  are  ...  how  you  have  conquered." 


220  ESTHER  DAMON 

"No,  Esther,  I'm  a  cheat  to  talk  to  you  at  all. 
I'm  a  miserable  weakling.  If  there's  hope  for  me, 
there  is  for  any  one.  I  say  these  things  to  you  to 
fortify  myself.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it's  my  way  of  pray 
ing." 

Every  word  uttered  by  Robert  became  Esther's 
own.  "When  you  talk  to  me,"  she  answered 
faintly,  "I  grow  strong  .  .  .  almost  brave.  I  don't 
think  I'm  a  coward.  If  I  were  a  man  I  could  die 
for  my  country,  I  believe.  The  lake  doesn't  frighten 
me;  but,"  she  spoke  with  a  voice  without  resonance, 
like  that  of  one  bereft  of  reason,  "I  can't  go  back 
to  Freedom.  I  can't  meet  those  women  who  stare 
at  me  so.  The  men  are  worse.  ...  I  can't  listen 
to  their  laughter.  This  place  is  a  prison.  ...  If  I 
could  go  away.  .  .  .  Another  sneer  or  another 
jeer  .  .  .  and  I  think  I'll  lose  my  senses." 

"I  know  just  how  you  feel,  Esther.  I've  gone 
through  it  all,  but  try  to  bear  even  Freedom.  If  you 
can,  and  do  your  best  to  find  happiness  in  this  igno 
rant,  prejudiced  village  instead  of  in  some  dream- 
country,  you'll  be  happy  and  you'll  be  brave." 

Robert's  words  were  like  a  moral  illumination. 
They  set  in  motion  her  character  as  other  words  of 
his  had  given  impetus  to  her  intelligence.  For  a 
second  she  looked  toward  the  town  as  if  she  beheld 
a  sinister,  dreadful  thing.  Then  she  shuddered. 
"Oh,  but  Freedom  .  .  .  you  don't  know  it.  That 
place  never  looked  at  you  as  it  did  at  me. 
You  never  felt  it  give  you  the  blow  it  gave  me. 
You  couldn't.  You're  a  man." 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         221 

Orme's  presence  promised  Esther  as  much  as  his 
words.  "  Don't  mind  the  little  creatures  of  Free 
dom.  You'll  soar  over  them.  They  see  only 
shadows.  It  doesn't  matter  what  they  think.  Their 
bad  thoughts  poison  them  alone.  The  only  thing 
which  should  matter  to  you,  Esther,  is  what  you 
think  of  yourself." 

"That's  it.  I  think  so  horribly  of  myself."  But 
she  dimly  felt  what  he  desired  her  to  see.  "There 
isn't  much  hope  for  me,  but  I  do  believe  in  you.  I 
don't  want  to  hurt  you.  Father  is  right.  The  spirit 
of  God  has  deserted  me.  I'll  be  a  curse  to  every  one 
who  tries  to  help  me." 

Robert  had  slight  sympathy  with  these  little  pri 
vate  views  of  the  Creator;  but  he,  too,  often  lost 
himself  in  the  wreaths  of  smoke  he  blew  when  dream 
ing  of  the  First  Cause.  And  so  he  answered  pa 
tiently,  "No,  no,  Esther,  there's  no  such  thing  as  a 
curse.  We  are  all  cripples,  groping  and  stumbling 
about  in  darkness.  We  only  go  right  after  we've 
tried  most  of  the  ways  of  going  wrong.  Even  then, 
we  fall  back  into  the  wrong.  It's  a  daily  fight  to  keep 
from  it." 

The  girl  knew  that  he  was  thinking  not  only  of 
her,  but  of  himself.  In  a  second  he  quickly  went 
on,  "But  we  keep  up  the  struggle  because  we  can't 
live  for  ourselves  alone.  We  don't  belong  to  our 
selves.  Everything  we  do  influences  some  one  else. 
Other  lives  depend  on  ours." 

Robert  was  endeavoring  to  kindle  in  her  the  re 
alization  of  the  duty  she  owed  her  unborn  child- 


222  ESTHER  DAMON 

He  counted  on  this  to  save  her,  but  it  was  a  part 
of  his  delicacy  for  Esther  to  insist  that  she  be  the 
first  to  phrase  it.  That  she  could  do  this  was  a 
symptom  of  her  convalescence  of  mind.  Her  coun 
tenance  was  illumined  in  the  exalted  moment  when 
she  gained  a  vision  of  something  to  live  for.  The 
child  should  be  her  new  purity,  her  new  honor,  her 
new  morality,  her  new  faith,  her  new  love. 

"If  I  thought  he  would  wish  it," — her  tone  be 
trayed  at  what  cost  of  anguish  this  awakened  sense 
of  the  value  of  living  had  been  achieved — "I'd  do  it. 
I'd  do  anything  ...  I'd  suffer  anything.  I'd  starve 
...  I'd  live.  Even  those  people  in  Freedom  couldn't 
hurt  me.  Tell  me,"  she  said  with  widening  eyes, 
"Do  you  suppose  my  cowardice  has  already  been 
stamped  on  my  son?" 

"Don't  think  of  such  a  thing,  Esther.  Come  back 
to  Freedom  with  me.  Take  up  your  work  with 
us,  and  he'll  be  brave." 

"Do  you  really  think  so,"  she  asked  doubtfully. 
"How  brave?  Brave  enough  to  win  battles?" 

"The  greatest,  Esther." 

Already  the  future  was  envisioned  in  her  deep 
young  face.  "And  if  all  the  time  I  read  beautiful 
books  and  think  beautiful  thoughts,  will  he  do  the 
same?" 

"It  can't  be  otherwise." 

"And  if  I  try  to  get  rid  of  weakness,  vanity,  un- 
kindness,  will  he?" 

Esther's  hope  became  his  own,  as  he  assured  her, 
"Without  doubt." 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         223 

She  went  on  in  great  exultation,  "And  he'll  begin 
to  read  while  he's  very  young,  like  the  great  phi 
losopher.  Then  you'll  teach  him  all  the  splendid 
thoughts  of  those  wonderful  men  who  wrote  books." 

"Yes. 

"And  I'll  study  so  by  the  time  he's  wise  and 
great  I  shan't  be  too  dull  a  companion.  But,  .  .  . 
what  if  this  horrible  stain  starts  out  on  his  life? 
What  will  he  think  of  me?" 

"He'll  think  of  you — I  promise  that  much — what 
a  saint  would  think  of  his  mother." 

The  pair  were  standing  facing  each  other,  and 
Esther  gave  a  faint,  fluttering  gesture  to  balance  her 
body  as  once  more  she  betrothed  herself  to  life. 
When  Robert  took  her  hand  it  seemed  sweet  not  to 
die.  In  the  contact,  an  inarticulate  pledge  passed  be 
tween  them.  "I  believe  in  you,  Mr.  Orme,"  she 
said.  "I  shouldn't  try  to  live  without  you.  I  know 
you'll  keep  me  up  when  I  break  down." 

"You'll  not  break  down,  Esther.  You'll  redeem 
every  mistake.  Perhaps  I  shall  ask  you  to  give  me 
courage." 

Her  nature  was  not  changed,  but  Orme  had  trans 
formed  her  ideal  of  existence.  For  her  life  now  had 
a  sacred  purpose.  "I  can  go  on  this  way  by  your 
side  until  I  drop,"  she  murmured,  unafraid. 


CHAPTER  XX 

WHEN  Esther  made  her  way  back  to  Freedom, 
though  Orme  was  by  her  side,  she  walked  alone. 
The  stars  were  the  sneering  eyes  of  women.  The 
wind  was  the  derisive  laughter  of  men.  Unaided, 
with  her  own  strength,  she  found  she  must  bear  it. 
And  she  had  no  more  strength.  When  she  and  Rob 
ert  were  near  the  top  of  the  hill  she  faltered.  Had  he 
not  caught  her  in  his  arms  she  would  have  sunk  to 
the  ground.  "You  mustn't  ask  me  to  go  farther, 
Mr.  Orme,"  she  gasped.  "Let  me  turn  back.  .  .  . 
I'm  attempting  too  much." 

Orme  chose  well  the  spur  to  urge  her  onward,  to 
recall  her  to  her  larger  self;  "Come,  Esther,  remem 
ber  the  child." 

She  lived  a  minute  rich  with  possibilities;  then 
brightening,  she  responded,  "Yes,  I  mustn't  for 
get." 

Raising  her  head  quickly  she  hastened  her  pace; 
but  at  the  top  of  the  hill  she  lingered  to  breathe 
awhile  in  suffering.  Though  the  golden  after-glow 
was  fading  on  the  horizon,  already  the  moon  was  in 
the  sky.  "I'm  glad  it's  dark  so  early,"  Esther  said. 
She  was  thinking  of  the  hundreds  of  homes  in  Free 
dom,  wondering  if  there  was  one  for  her.  "Where 
shall  I  go  to-night?"  she  asked  timidly. 

Orme's  first  intention  had  been  that  she  should 

224 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         225 

remain  at  his  house;  but  as  Esther  spoke,  he  saw 
Alice,  returning  from  the  village,  pass  near  him  and 
Esther,  and  even  at  close  range  ignore  them  both. 
Robert's  care  that  the  girl  should  not  receive  a 
wound,  acted  as  a  lever  to  his  answer:  "You'll  work 
at  Mrs.  Brewster's  until  we  build  another  cabin  on 
the  hill  or  get  more  room.  Perhaps  you  had  better 
remain  with  her  for  a  time." 

"Mrs.  Brewster  doesn't  like  Methodists  even  at 
the  best,"  Esther  demurred.  "Do  you  think  she'd 
let  me  come  to  her  house  now?" 

"You  surely  have  learned  that  the  worst  thing 
about  Aunty  Brewster  is  her  tongue.  That  is  un 
ruly;  but  she's  like  a  second  mother  to  me,  really 
kind  and  true-hearted.  She  doesn't  mean  a  word 
she  says." 

Orme  left  Esther  seated  on  Mrs.  Brewster's  ver 
anda.  He  entered  the  sitting-room  where  the  mili 
tant  widow  was  reading  her  weekly  Boston  Trans 
cript — the  only  newspaper  that  she  believed  told 
the  truth.  "Ain't  somebody  on  the  stoop?"  Mrs. 
Brewster  asked,  looking  at  Robert  over  her  glasses. 

"Will  you  come  into  the  kitchen,  Aunty?"  he 
inquired  before  making  response. 

When  he  closed  the  door  Mrs.  Brewster,  astonished 
at  such  unusual  procedure,  repeated  her  question, 
and  Orme  answered,  "It's  Esther " 

"You  don't  mean  it's  that  whiffle-jigger  girl, 
Bobby!" 

"Esther  Damon  is  on  the  porch,  Aunty  Brewster, 
if  you  mean  her." 


226  ESTHER  DAMON 

Mrs.  Brewster  stared  stonily.  "What  are  you 
walking  the  streets  with  her  for,  Bobby?  Ain't  you 
heard  about  her?" 

"Yes,  it's  a  tragedy." 

This  remark  from  another  than  Orme  might  have 
interrupted  diplomatic  relations  and  perhaps  have 
been  followed  by  a  declaration  of  war.  The  long 
hairs  on  the  widow's  chin  bristled.  "Tragedy!"  she 
exclaimed,  fortifying  herself  by  putting  a  few  extra 
pins  in  the  blue  and  white  checked  apron  which 
she  wore  as  an  emblem  of  superlative  worth — a  white 
apron  being  a  vanity  to  be  indulged  in  only  by  lazy 
bones.  "Umph!  anybody  can  pull  the  wool  over 
your  eyes,  Bobby.  That  girl  is  one  of  those  low 
creatures  they  have  in  New  York.  Don't  have  no 
sich  folks  in  Boston." 

"Oh,  yes,  they  do,  Aunty  Brewster,  thousands  of 
them — even  much  worse,  because  we're  all  weak." 

"You  may  be,  Bobby — although  I  dare  anybody 
to  say  it  behind  your  back — but  I  ain't  weak.  I 
ain't  whiff y-whaffy."  To  establish  the  assertion, 
Mrs.  Brewster  seated  herself  by  her  shining  stove 
and  took  up  a  poker.  The  significance  of  this  act 
was  that  the  fortress  was  adequately  supplied  with 
munitions  of  war  and  could  resist  any  siege  likely 
to  be  laid.  But  Orme  had  known  his  opponent 
too  long  ever  to  attack  with  methods  familiar  to 
her. 

"I  know  you're  not,  Aunty  Brewster,"  he  answered 
with  a  smile,  very  winning  because  so  seldom  called 
into  service.  "You're  strong.  That's  why  I  come 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         227 

to  you  when  I  need  a  friend.  You're  the  only  per 
son  who  never  fails  me.  So  I'm  here  now." 

It  was  some  seconds  before  the  blaze  in  Mrs. 
Brewster's  countenance  testified  to  the  precision  of 
Orme's  aim.  The  widow  menaced  him  with  the 
poker  as  she  returned  fire :  "  Quit  right  there,  Bobby. 
None  of  your  lolly-gagging.  When  you  were  a 
little  fellow  and  wanted  me  to  make  you  a  pie  or 
fry  you  some  doughnuts  you  always  used  to  tell 
me  I  was  the  best  cook  in  Freedom." 

"I  still  say  it."  He  was  determined  that  no 
strategic  point  of  vantage  should  be  overlooked. 

"I  don't  care  if  you  do.  I  won't  have  that 
whiffle-jigger  girl  here,"  she  stormed. 

He  helplessly  placed  the  case  in  her  hands. 
" Where  is  the  poor  girl  to  go  then?" 

Mrs.  Brewster  knew  he  was  trying  to  stir  her 
pity.  Waving  the  colors  of  the  fortress,  the  poker, 
she  resisted,  "How  do  I  know?  I  ain't  got  any 
sympathy  with  such  cattle.  I  always  behaved  my 
self  and  I  expect  every  one  to  do  the  same.  I  want 
you  to  understand,  Bobby  Orme,  I  was  the  purest- 
minded  girl  in  Marlboro,  Massachusetts." 

This  boast  had  passed  unquestioned  through  the 
village  clearing-house  for  reputations  on  the  day  of 
Mrs.  Brewster's  arrival  in  Freedom.  Robert  had 
often  heard  it,  but  he  showed  no  diluted  interest 
in  her  self-acclaimed  attribute.  Instead  he  laid  hold 
of  it,  and  used  it  as  heavy  artillery.  "  That's  just 
why  you  can  let  this  poor,  unfortunate  girl  come 
here,  Aunty.  You  are  so  irreproachable,  so  big  and 


228  ESTHER  DAMON 

fine  and  generous-hearted,  so  full  of  decent  human 
feeling," — he  heaped  her  qualities  before  her  with 
extravagant  hand — "that  you  can  afford  to  let  her 
live  with  you.  Won't  you  be  her  protectress? 
You're  so  much  kinder  than  any  other  woman  I 
know,  I'm  sure  you  will." 

"Live  in  this  house?  Do  you  think  I've  got  a 
room  to  let  up  here?"  Mrs.  Brewster's  poker  in 
dicated  her  high,  broad  forehead  over  which  the 
white  hair  was  parted.  "Say,  you're  green,  green 
and  looney." 

Orme  braved  it.  "Yes,  live  here  with  you,  Aunty 
Brewster,  and  work.  You  always  said  Esther  Da 
mon  wove  beautifully.  What  is  she  to  do?  Think 
how  young  she  is.  You  know  Elder  Damon  turned 
her  out  of  the  church  and  out  of  the  house." 

With  this  shot  the  bombarder  found  an  unguarded 
entrance  to  the  citadel.  Mrs.  Brewster's  features 
relaxed  as  she  grunted,  "Umph!  Much  religion 
them  Methodists  have  got  anyway.  They've  got 
brass  to  come  up  here  and  try  to  save  my  soul 
because  I  can  afford  to  wear  a  breast-pin  and  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles.  I  told  Mis'  Damon  she'd 
better  look  out  for  her  own  nest.  She  said  hell  was 
for  Universalists.  I  guess  Methodists  have  a  little 
of  it  too.  That's  what  comes  of  running  around 
the  streets,  tending  to  other  folks'  business." 

At  the  sight  of  the  drooping  colors  Orme  flanked 
her  and  followed  with  another  broadside:  "You're 
quite  right,  Aunty  Brewster.  Why  have  religion  if 
it  isn't  for  use  in  your  own  life?  The  Methodists 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         229 

will  feel  the  rebuke  if  you  shelter  Esther  Damon. 
Show  them  that  if  you  don't  accept  the  divinity  of 
Jesus,  you  do  follow  the  Golden  Rule." 

Mrs.  Brewster  did  not  immediately  perceive  when 
the  enemy  planted  a  standard  in  the  stronghold  com 
manding  the  fort.  A  pleased  smile  played  about  the 
corners  of  her  mouth.  But  discovering  the  advan 
tage  Orme  had  gained,  she  put  on  her  spectacles  and 
once  more  waved  the  poker  to  indicate  that  the  brief 
truce  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  off  the  wounded  was 
at  an  end.  "No,  Bobby,  I  won't.  She  ought  to 
marry  the  fellow." 

"What  if  he's  already  married,  Aunty?" 

"  A  married  man !  Worse  and  worse !  I'm  ashamed 
to  live  in  Freedom."  Then  the  widow's  curiosity 
gained  ascendency  over  her  horror.  "Who  is  it, 
Bobby?" 

Orme  found  the  truth  not  easy  to  utter,  but  he  ex 
plained,  "It  is  said  she  was  engaged  to  young  Clancy. 
He  married  a  few  weeks  ago  and  left  her." 

"The  Catholics  and  whiskey  will  be  the  ruina 
tion  of  this  country  if  we  don't  get  rid  of  them. 
These  furriners  hadn't  ought  to  be  allowed  to  build 
a  church.  They  should  be  drove  out  of  America." 
Mrs.  Brewster  ground  her  teeth  as  though  by  that 
process  to  diminish  the  number  of  the  alien-born. 
"I'd  have  the  law  after  that  scalawag  if  I  was  the 
minister.  I'd  lock  him  up  where  he  belongs.  Why 
don't  they?" 

"Women,  I  am  told,  sometimes  think  a  great  deal 
of  scoundrels,"  answered  Orme  slowly. 


230  ESTHER  DAMON 

When  Mrs.  Brewster  removed  her  spectacles, 
wiped  them,  and  coughed  loudly,  she  gave  the  signal 
for  the  fall  of  the  colors.  Resistance  was  at  an 
end  when  she  said,  "Ain't  women  soft  fools?" 

"Not  all  of  them,  Aunty  Brewster,"  replied  Orme 
with  diplomacy  which  avoided  an  implication  that 
there  had  been  a  siege  or  surrender. 

"It's  an  awful  risk,"  held  out  Mrs.  Brewster. 
"What  will  folks  think?" 

"What  will  you  think  if  you  don't?  This  poor 
girl  would  be  dead  now  if  I  hadn't  brought  her 
back  from  the  lake." 

With  the  corner  of  her  apron  Mrs.  Brewster  dried 
her  eyes;  but  as  she  snuffled  her  tears  she  resisted. 
"I  don't  care,  Bobby  Orme.  She's  a  bad  girl,  a 
bad  girl.  She  ought  to  be  punished.  She  deserves 
all  she  gets.  But  women  are  the  unluckiest  critters 
living.  I  don't  want  to  pick  up  a  paper  and  read 
that  the  minister's  daughter  died  because  I  wouldn't 
take  her  in.  I  care  that  much  about  my  church." 

The  widow  was  silent  for  a  second,  during  which 
she  reflected  that  her  resistance  had  done  scant 
credit  to  her  Revolutionary  ancestors.  Putting  on 
her  spectacles,  as  though  astonished  to  find  a  be 
sieger  quite  making  himself  at  ease  in  her  fortress, 
she  said  doughtily,  "Now,  I  suppose  you  think  you 
can  just  wind  me  right  around  your  little  finger, 
and  I'm  an  old  softy,  don't  you,  Bobby  ?  Well,  you 
can't.  I  want  you  to  understand  that.  No  one 
can.  I'm  of  the  old  New  England  blood,  with  not  a 
furriner  in  it.  None  of  them  can  come  it  over  me." 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         231 

Then  Mrs.  Brewster  boldly  took  this  leap,  "I  want 
that  girl  to  march  straight  into  this  house  and  have 
something  to  eat  and  go  to  bed."  She  herself  opened 
the  screen  door  of  the  sitting-room.  "  Come  in,  Miss 
Whiffle-Whaffle.  I  can  never  think  of  a  name." 

"It's  Esther,"  said  the  girl,  warming  herself  in  the 
welcoming  cheer  of  the  room. 

"Of  course,"  answered  Mrs.  Brewster,  "of  course 
it  is.  What  are  you  doing  whick-whacking  around 
there  on  the  stoop?  Why  didn't  you  come  right  in 
in  the  first  place  and  not  pay  any  attention  to  that 
Bobby  Orme.  He  ain't  got  manners  enough  for  a 
chicken,  and  he's  queer  besides — queer  as  Dick's 
hat-band.  He  thinks  I'm  set  in  my  ways  and  hard 
to  get  along  with.  I  ain't  a  bit.  He's  set.  Every 
one  in  Freedom  is  terrible  set.  Never  saw  such  a 
place.  Not  much  like  Marlboro,  Massachusetts.  I 
did  say  I'd  never  take  boarders  again.  Weaving  is 
so  much  easier  than  frying  over  a  cook-stove.  But 
any  one  can  get  along  with  me  that  ain't  lazy.  I 
hate  folks  that  lie  abed.  You  ain't  got  a  lazy  bone 
in  your  body.  You  look  kind  o'  played  out,  Esther," 
Mrs.  Brewster  said,  suddenly  staring  at  the  girl. 
"You  sit  right  where  you  are.  No,  don't  you  stir. 
I  guess  I  can  get  tea." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WHEN  it  became  known  in  Freedom  that  queer 
old  Mrs.  Brewster  had  given  shelter  to  Esther 
Damon  the  widow  prepared  for  a  "regular  old 
Bunker  Hill  fight"  with  the  village.  In  reality  she 
lived  at  her  highest  in  the  smell  of  powder.  Mrs. 
Brewster's  sortie  from  her  house  the  morning  after 
Esther's  arrival  was  in  her  thought  historic.  She 
imagined  she  understood  how  President  Lincoln  had 
felt  when  he  declared  war.  Market  basket  on  arm, 
she  set  out  for  the  Four  Corners  to  purchase  gro 
ceries. 

Mrs.  Snead,  the  Baptist  deacon's  wife,  nearest 
neighbor  of  the  widow,  sat  at  her  window  reading 
the  Bible.  When  Mrs.  Brewster  passed,  Mrs. 
Snead  looked  up  to  break  a  lance:  "Good  morning, 
Mis'  Brewster.  Is  what  Ira  Wherritt  says  true? 
I  told  him  I  guessed  no  likely  woman  would  have 
that  trollop  in  the  house."  Then  she  blandly  ques 
tioned,  "You  haven't,  have  you?" 

The  widow  laid  about  her  recklessly.  "These 
hard-shelled  Baptists  would  let  folks  die  in  the  street 
before  they'd  give  'em  a  cup  of  cold  water." 

In  triumph  Mrs.  Brewster  proceeded  until  she 
met  Georgiana  Posey,  the  village  milliner.  With 
the  painful  accumulation  of  modesty  arising  from 

232 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         233 

fifty  years  of  spinsterhood,  Miss  Posey  blushed, 
shook  her  fair  ringlets,  fidgeted,  and  with  furtive, 
averted  eyes,  inquired  concerning  the  fascinating, 
proscribed  creature.  Of  course  everybody  should 
be  charitable,  but  it  was  too  awful.  Such  a  thing 
had  never  happened  in  Freedom  before. 

Mrs.  Brewster,  emitting  a  belligerent  grunt,  bore 
down  upon  her.  "It  would  take  a  standing  army 
to  make  Freedom  hoe  its  own  row  first.  This  town 
would  go  to  bed  with  cramps  if  it  minded  its  busi 
ness  for  a  week." 

Mrs.  Brewster  belabored  the  clerks  at  Spear's  for 
their  curiosity.  She  pounced  upon  the  sneering  Ira 
Wherritt  as  a  "snoop."  She  let  fly  at  the  druggist. 
She  launched  out  against  numerous  other  question 
ers,  and  returned  to  her  house  with  a  sense  of  having 
had  a  "tantoram  of  a  time." 

Her  fondness  for  Esther  began  in  being  obliged  to 
defend  her.  It  increased  when  she  found  the  girl  sit 
ting  stunned  before  a  package  of  her  belongings  just 
received  from  Elder  and  Mrs.  Damon.  Esther's 
shabby  clothing,  her  religious  books,  that  evidence  of 
her  vanity — a  little  triangular  piece  of  mirror — were 
all  spread  out  on  the  table.  What  had  been  intended 
as  a  kindness  to  Esther  was  for  her  only  another  cast- 
ing-off.  Mrs.  Brewster  took  in  the  situation  at  a 
glance. 

"Oh,  these  I'm-better-than-you-are  folks!  I  won 
der  what  they're  sending  you  such  rubbish  as  that 
for,"  she  raged,  gathering  the  things  in  her  capable 
arms  and  starting  for  the  kitchen.  "Ain't  fit  to  wear. 


234  ESTHER  DAMON 

Let's  burn  'em  up  and  get  rid  of  them  an'  buy  some 
decent  things.  Look  at  them  shoes."  She  thrust 
her  finger  through  a  hole. 

"No,  no,"  Esther  protested,  hurrying  after  Mrs. 
Brewster.  "  Don't  do  that.  I  know  they're  ugly, 
but  ...  I  wore  them  before  ...  a  long  time  ago 
...  I'd  like  to  keep  them  always." 

"Everybody  to  his  own  taste,"  answered  Mrs. 
Brewster  brusquely.  "  But  let's  get  'em  out  of  sight." 
As  she  carried  the  things  into  the  best  bedroom 
which  opened  off  the  sitting-room  she  suddenly  de 
cided,  "This  spare  room  is  yours,  Esther." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Brewster,  but  don't  give 
me  the  best  room." 

"I  will  if  I  want  to.  What  have  you  got  to  say 
about  it?  I  don't  have  much  company  anyway." 

Mrs.  Brewster's  affection  for  Esther  was  soon 
again  given  another  stimulus.  The  two  Butts  sis 
ters,  washed-out  maidens  of  indefinite  age,  came  as 
usual  to  their  work.  When  they  saw  Esther  "trip 
ping  the  treadle"  in  the  sitting-room  they  learned 
that  the  incredible  rumor  was  true.  Mrs.  Brewster 
expected  them  to  work  in  the  same  house  with  Esther 
Damon.  Their  ideas  were  few  but  sharply  defined. 
They  wouldn't.  After  a  mute  conference  with  their 
eyes,  they  drew  their  neat  skirts  about  them  and  de 
parted,  never  to  return.  Esther  tossed  the  shuttle 
faster  than  before.  She  must  make  up  to  Orme  for 
his  loss  of  the  Butts'  services. 

The  wife  and  daughter  of  Michael  Magee,  the 
blacksmith,  were  too  poor  to  pay  for  the  luxury  of 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         235 

fastidious  discrimination.  They  would  not  have 
touched  Esther  with  the  tips  of  their  square  fingers; 
but  after  a  secret  conclave  with  Mrs.  Brewster  in 
the  kitchen  they  promised  to  go  on  with  their  work 
on  condition  that  Esther  should  never  enter  the  attic 
where  their  looms  were. 

Mrs.  Brewster  attempted  to  keep  from  the  girl  the 
terror  incited  by  her  among  these  women  whose 
lives  had  been  sealed  to  evil;  but  Esther's  sensibili 
ties  were  so  sharpened  by  pain  that  she  guessed  all 
concealed  from  her.  She  had  always  been  a  dom 
inating  figure  in  school.  From  her  world  of  Method 
ists  she  had  received  adulation.  Tt  was  difficult  for 
her  to  understand  that  in  a  few  days  she  had  really 
become  a  monster.  Mrs.  Brewster  sensed  her  suffer 
ing,  and,  by  way  of  showing  sympathy,  brought  her 
a  piece  of  mince-pie  and  some  home-made  molasses 
candy.  These  Esther  pretended  to  eat,  but  when 
Mrs.  Brewster  returned  to  the  kitchen,  pie  and  candy 
were  thrown  out  of  the  window. 

The  cruelty  of  the  morning  but  united  Esther  more 
closely  with  the  spirit  of  her  unborn  child.  She  could 
not  have  braved  the  day  for  herself,  but  it  was  a  sub 
lime  delight  to  do  so  for  him,  to  toil  with  the  strength 
of  her  love  for  him.  So  her  shuttle  became  winged ; 
her  feet  knew  no  rest. 

At  noon  Esther  helped  Mrs.  Brewster  wash  the 
dishes,  then  she  went  on  with  her  work  at  the  loom. 
At  four  o'clock,  when  the  Magees  left,  so  intent  was 
she  on  her  task  that  she  forgot  this  was  the  hour 
for  assembling  in  the  work-shop  on  the  hill  to  hear 


236  ESTHER  DAMON 

Orme's  discourse.  Half  an  hour  later  Mearns  ar 
rived  with  a  note  from  Robert  to  Mrs.  Brewster. 
"Kindly  insist  that  Esther  come  to  the  lecture  this 
afternoon."  The  message  was  shown  the  girl. 

"I'm  sorry  Mr.  Orme  wrote,"  Esther  said.  "I 
can't  go." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  can't  .  .  .  Mrs.  Brewster." 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  fools  and  pigs,"  the 
widow  counselled,  less  brusquely  than  usual.  "Hold 
up  your  head.  You've  got  as  much  right  to  go  as 
any  one.  Bobby  Orme  wants  you  to  come.  He'll 
be  mad  if  you  don't.  I  don't  take  any  stock  in  book 
learning;  but  you've  wove  like  fury  since  morning, 
and  even  books  is  better'n  killing  yourself." 

That  Robert  questioned  so  little,  heeded  so  little 
the  opinions  of  others,  presented  itself  anew  to 
Esther  as  a  part  of  the  greatness  of  his  attitude 
toward  life.  This  realization  brought  her  to  her 
feet.  Mrs.  Brewster  wrapped  her  in  a  long  black 
shawl — Esther  had  never  owned  a  cloak — and  the 
widow  insisted  that  she  put  on  overshoes.  The  first 
snow  of  the  season  was  falling  in  large,  ragged 
flakes. 

In  passing  the  Orme  cabin  Esther  noticed  Alice 
seated  at  the  window,  sewing.  The  girl's  religious 
environment  had  rendered  Esther  singularly  devoid 
of  deference  to  material  distinction,  but  her  desire  for 
knowledge  gave  her  humble  reverence  for  superior 
minds.  She  wondered  how  Mrs.  Orme  could  remain 
away  from  her  husband's  lecture.  It  did  not  occur 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         237 

to  Esther  that  Alice  Orme's  absence  measured  the 
distance  between  husband  and  wife 

When  Esther  opened  the  door  of  the  work-shop 
she  was  greeted  by  an  atmosphere  of  warmth  and 
welcome.  Logs  blazed  in  the  fireplace  of  the  great 
room,  which  was  wainscoted  to  the  roof  and  had 
wide  windows  looking  out  on  the  valley.  In  the 
centre  of  the  work-shop  was  a  huge  round  table 
littered  with  books  and  periodicals,  on  which  stood  a 
large  urn  filled  with  branches  of  oak  and  evergreen. 
Before  the  fire,  surrounded  by  a  group  of  men  and 
women  was  Orme.  He  wore  the  overalls  and  blouse 
of  the  workmen.  In  one  corner  stood  a  youth  with 
honey-colored  hair,  looking  into  the  eyes  of  a  blush 
ing  country  girl.  In  another  corner  sat  a  boy, 
sketching.  Before  a  small  table  was  a  middle-aged 
woman  experimenting  with  bookbinding.  Fully 
half  of  the  room  was  occupied  by  unfinished  furni 
ture.  There  was  laughter,  chatter,  and  good-fellow 
ship.  Esther  felt  the  personality  of  Orme  in  every 
thing.  She  realized  that  getting  a  living  was  not  of 
necessity  a  dull  kind  of  business. 

At  first  the  girl  was  timid  before  so  many  unfa 
miliar  faces,  but  when  Orme  came  forward  to  greet 
her  she  knew  what  it  was  to  be  with  one  who  took 
life  in  a  fine,  free  way;  who  saw  beyond  her  dis 
grace,  against  which  beat  the  hard  glaring  light  of 
Freedom.  She  did  not  realize  it,  but  as  he  looked 
at  Esther  he  set  her  apart  from  all  others.  "I've  been 
waiting  for  you,"  he  said  simply  as  he  escorted  her 
to  a  chair. 


238  ESTHER  DAMON 

Many  of  the  workmen  seated  themselves  on  the 
furniture;  some  on  tables;  others  on  benches.  Few 
of  those  present  knew  who  Esther  was.  Most  of 
Orme's  recruits  came  from  the  boys  and  girls  of 
the  farms  and  surrounding  towns  who  were  strug 
gling  to  get  an  education.  The  men  who  lived  in 
Freedom  had  each  in  turn  been  championed  by 
Robert,  and  they  recognized  his  courage  in  asking 
Esther  to  the  lecture.  But  the  women  called  it  au 
dacity.  The  Magees  and  their  friends  moved  their 
chairs  audibly  when  Esther  was  seated  near  them. 
To  avoid  the  hurt  of  their  hostility,  she  carried  her 
chair  and  placed  it  beside  Thomas  O'Shea,  an  old 
soldier  who  had  served  a  term  in  the  county  jail. 
The  shadow  of  the  prison  still  trailed  after  the  ner 
vous  little  man,  and  he  raised  eyes  glad  with  grati 
tude  to  Esther.  His  smile  gave  her  a  glow  of  pleas 
ure,  that  even  her  sympathy  could  confer  happiness 
on  one  forlorn  being. 

For  more  than  a  year  Esther  had  wished  to  hear 
Orme  speak.  It  was  the  irony  of  existence  that  at 
last,  under  such  circumstances,  her  wish  should  be 
gratified.  This  afternoon  he  talked  of  Dion,  the  Dion 
of  Plutarch.  Robert's  vocabulary  was  simple.  He 
made  no  effort.  He  held  in  mind  all  in  the  room, 
even  Thomas  O'Shea.  With  a  few  simple  words  he 
portrayed  Dion,  his  nobility  of  spirit,  his  wisdom,  his 
heroism,  his  great  life.  In  talking,  Robert  distracted 
the  listeners  from  their  narrow  interests  and  raised  in 
them  a  new  value  of  living.  Esther  recognized  herself 
in  the  presence  of  a  great  teacher.  As  he  progressed 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         239 

she  surrendered  her  mind  to  him.  She  wished  to 
have  him  interpret  for  her  the  world;  to  possess  no 
thought  but  his.  Leaning  forward,  she  knew  she 
listened  not  only  for  herself  but  for  the  unborn 
being  she  called  her  son.  Orme's  words  became 
part  of  them  both. 

And  a  wonderful  fancy  laid  hold  on  her.  It  was 
seed,  plant,  and  flower  in  an  instant,  abloom  with  all 
the  hues  of  a  rainbow.  Her  child  should  be  like 
the  great  Greek  .  .  .  perhaps  a  second  Dion!  One 
day  the  little  intruder  might  become  her  glory. 
Esther's  hope  mounted  until  she  even  saw  him  as 
the  torch  with  which  she  should  blaze  through  the 
future,  thereby  in  the  truest  sense  to  become  im 
mortal.  Who  would  deprive  her  of  this  pleasure 
dream  ?  It  was  to  color  many  a  gray  day  of  conflict 
with  the  world. 

For  the  second  hour,  as  a  rule,  Orme  selected  a 
theme  from  elementary  natural  science,  ethics,  or 
political  economy.  The  previous  summer  the  work 
ing-people  had  studied  a  simple  botany.  This  after 
noon  Robert  chose  as  a  topic  the  history  of  a  piece 
of  chalk.  But  so  profoundly  had  the  first  hour 
penetrated  all  most  vital  within  Esther  that  for  a 
second  she  found  her  thoughts  straying  as  he  held 
the  chalk  before  his  readers.  His  intention  was  to 
outline  the  evolution  of  the  earth. 

At  this  period  the  Academy  of  Freedom  accepted 
as  valid  the  Mosaic  theory  of  creation.  When  Orme 
presented  the  scientific  explanation  of  comets,  me 
teors,  constellations,  the  earth,  he  did  not  realize 


240  ESTHER  DAMON 

his  words  were  startling  or  revolutionary.  He  enu 
merated  the  geological  ages,  the  great  eras  of  change, 
and  finally  fixed  in  the  earth-story  the  small  piece 
of  chalk.  It  was  all  told  like  romance.  He  could 
light  up  facts  until  they  glowed  like  fiction.  As  Orme 
spoke  he  seemed  to  communicate  specially  with  each 
listener.  Toward  the  close  of  his  talk  the  dumb 
fear  on  the  countenance  of  Esther  perplexed  him. 

When  he  finished  speaking,  the  working-people 
gathered  about  him,  presenting  their  questions,  seek 
ing  suggestions  and  help.  Esther  sat  still.  But  when 
at  last  only  O'Shea  and  Griggs  remained,  Robert  ex 
cused  himself  and  approached  her.  "Did  I  say  any 
thing  to  trouble  you  to-day?"  he  inquired. 

The  girl's  thoughts  rushed  forth  in  a  question  to 
meet  his  query.  "Is  what  you  said  this  afternoon 
true,  Mr.  Orme?" 

"I  dare  say  I  made  errors.  What  have  you  in 
mind?" 

"Your  words  about  the  creation  of  the  earth." 

Out  of  the  earnestness  of  Esther's  manner  there 
came  to  Robert  a  vision  of  a  splendid  edifice,  the 
bricks  and  mortar  of  which  were  centuries  of  belief, 
sacrifice,  and  renunciation.  At  last  he  compre 
hended,  and  with  a  fine  regret,  for  so  delicate  and 
profound  was  his  respect  for  the  spiritual  belief  of 
others  that  he  never  intentionally  sowed  seed  for  a 
harvest  of  doubt.  With  the  consideration  of  the 
gentlemanly-minded,  he  responded,  "I  think  it  is, 
Esther." 

Her  expression  was  a  vague  blur.    She  was  like 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         241 

the  dove  of  the  ark,  vainly  seeking  dry  land  amidst 
the  waste  of  waters.  "Wasn't  the  world  created 
in  six  days  by  God?  ...  I'd  like  to  know." 

"Science  doesn't  say  so,"  he  answered  mildly. 

During  the  intense  interval  of  silence  he  could 
hear  her  breathe.  "Do  you  think  science  is  right, 
Mr.  Orme?" 

Robert  tried  to  modify  his  words  with  his  manner 
as  he  replied,  "I  can't  help  thinking  so." 

"Do  all  wise  people  agree  with  you?" 

Orme  would  have  retreated,  but  his  conscience 
urged  him  to  go  on,  "Most  of  those  the  world  calls 
wise." 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  she  seemed  to  steel 
herself  for  the  venture  of  all  her  faith.  "Then  wise 
people  don't  think  the  Bible  is  true?" 

Robert  could  not  commit  the  sacrilege  of  interfer 
ing  with  the  girl's  belief,  but  he  was  obliged  to 
answer.  "No,  I  shouldn't  say  that.  Rather  a  col 
lection  of  myths.  There  was  probably  a  Hercules 
to  inspire  the  Greek  legend." 

"Then  the  Christian  God  is  a  legend?  Do  you 
think  that,  Mr.  Orme?" 

Robert  recalled  that  twice  before  she  had  turned 
to  him  for  help;  but  saving  her  body  from  death 
was  to  his  thinking  not  so  grave  as  directing  her 
spiritual  life.  He  was  glad  of  this  third  appeal;  it 
brought  her  close  to  him.  But  he  shrank  from  the 
responsibility  it  involved.  "Does  it  matter  what  I 
think?" 

"It  matters  very  much  to  me." 


242  ESTHER  DAMON 

Why  couldn't  she  have  known  how  her  words 
turned  the  room,  his  life,  the  world,  into  magic  for 
him?  He  wondered  that  he  could  speak,  but  her 
deep  eyes  steadied  him.  "Esther,  it  might  matter  if 
I  knew  the  truth,  but  no  one  understands  what  it 
is.  Perhaps  if  the  real  truth,  and  the  truth  of  re 
ligion,  science,  and  philosophy  should  meet,  they 
wouldn't  recognize  each  other.  There  is  no  clarion 
to  proclaim  truth  when  it  appears.  Perhaps  it  is 
with  us  all  ...  perhaps  no  one  has  ever  felt  it. 
You  Methodists  have  your  belief;  so  have  philoso 
phers  and  men  of  science.  Each  thinks  his  own  ab 
solute.  No  one  knows  which  is  right.  Perhaps  man 
isn't  fit  for  truth  at  all.  Perhaps  he  can  no  more 
understand  it  than  a  dog  can  understand  Aristotle. 
I  was  too  arrogant  about  my  truth.  I  had  forgotten 
you  hadn't  studied  geology.  I  didn't  realize  how 
little  science  is  taught  at  the  Academy.  Believe  what 
you  feel  will  most  help  you." 

His  care  for  her  faith,  his  endeavor  not  to  hurt 
her,  was  to  Esther  beautiful;  but  she  replied,  "If 
what  science  says  should  be  true — if  God  didn't 
make  the  world  .  .  .  then  the  prophets  ...  sin 
.  .  .  redemption  ...  all  must  go." 

Orme  realized  he  had  only  to  reason,  to  insist, 
gently  to  withdraw  a  few  stones  from  the  foundation 
of  her  belief,  and  the  entire  structure  would  crash 
upon  her;  but  he  feared  that  she  at  present  could 
not  survive  such  a  disaster.  For  this  reason  he 
replied,  "I  don't  like  to  decide  for  you,  Esther." 

Then  the  girl  took  a  big,  glad  bound  into  the  sur- 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         243 

face  of  doubt  as  if,  with  the  quick  perception  of 
genius,  she  suddenly  formulated  for  herself  a  chart 
of  its  waters.  "But,  Mr.  Orme,  if  the  idea  of  sin 
weren't  always  hanging  over  us,  how  free  we  should 
be.  We  could  be  our  own  judges." 

"And  who  of  us  is  fit  for  that,  Esther?  I'm  sorry 
you  heard  me,  ...  sorry  I  disturbed  you  for  a 
moment." 

"I  thought  you  were  an  infidel." 

"They  call  me  that  because  I'm  one  of  those  who 
don't  know.  I  lost  faith  in  the  old  belief  and  read 
and  studied  to  find  it,  but  I  only  wandered  farther 
away.  Every  one  must  have  some  kind  of  religion. 
Hold  fast  to  yours  until  you're  strong  enough  to  shed 
it.  When  one  is  young  faith  is  poetry,  promise, 
hope.  It's  good  for  you." 

It  was  Esther's  first  venture  away  from  the  safe 
shore  of  orthodoxy  where  she  had  lived  for  nearly 
twenty  years.  She  returned  to  the  land  with  which 
she  was  familiar.  "I  must  keep  religion,"  she  said. 
"Perhaps  all  you  wise  men  are  mistaken,  and  some 
day  you'll  find  it  out.  Sometimes,"  she  said,  beset 
by  fear,  "sometimes  I  am  afraid  either  .  .  .  there  is 
no  God  or  ...  He  has  withdrawn  Himself  from 
me.  He  never  hears  my  prayers." 

The  girl  was  so  much  alone  in  the  world  that  Orme 
did  not  have  it  in  his  heart  to  alienate  her  from  the 
comfort  of  faith.  "Don't  feel  that  way,  Esther.  .  .  . 
If  there  is  a  God,  and  He  hears  any  prayers  they 
will  be  yours." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

DURING  the  winter  which  closed  down  on  Free 
dom  Esther  by  day  never  left  Mrs.  Brewster's  cot 
tage.  She  found  curious  peace  in  work  during  the 
week;  but  when  Sunday  came  and  the  church  bells 
began  to  ring,  the  old  ache  returned.  She  knew  that 
the  brothers  and  sisters  in  the  little  meeting-house 
often  glanced  at  the  vacant  place  by  her  mother's 
side.  Perhaps  her  parents  were  never  so  conscious 
of  her  transgression  as  on  the  holy  day.  Sunday, 
instead  of  being  a  time  of  rest,  was  for  the  girl  a 
time  of  torture.  Then  came  the  yearning  to  see  her 
mother.  In  her  dreams  Esther  re-lived  her  father's 
denunciation.  Often  on  Sunday  nights,  while  the 
town  slept,  she  rose,  dressed  and  made  her  way 
through  falling  snow  and  raging  wind  to  the  door 
of  the  parsonage.  She  could  not  enter,  but  some 
times  she  sat  on  the  steps  and  tried  to  forget  that 
she  was  proscribed.  She  imagined  that  the  door 
opened  and  her  parents  bade  her  come  in.  But 
they  never  did.  Her  gliding  about  in  storms  after 
midnight  gave  rise  to  the  belief  still  current  in  Free 
dom  that  the  village  was  haunted  by  a  woman  in 
black. 

Visitors  seldom  came  to  Aunty  Brewster's  house, 
but  Orme  appeared  daily.  Yet  he  did  not  enter. 

244 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         245 

Sometimes  he  heard  Esther's  voice,  left  a  book  for 
her  or  made  an  inquiry.  Business  he  transacted  with 
Mrs.  Brewster  at  the  door  and  went  away.  Though 
Esther  never  saw  Robert,  he  lingered  in  the  volumes 
she  opened.  His  friends  became  her  friends.  Those 
heroes  of  history  who  had  sustained  him  through  dark 
days  seemed  always  to  have  awaited  her.  They  wid 
ened  and  enriched  her  intelligence;  they  winged  her 
imagination ;  they  fortified  her  soul ;  they  created  in 
her  a  finer  conscience.  The  girl  no  longer  lived  in 
humdrum,  rudimentary  Freedom.  Robert  gave  her 
a  world  of  brave  men  and  women.  She  kept  pace 
with  them  through  fields  of  story,  poetry,  and  phil 
osophy.  Their  joys  became  her  own,  their  suffer 
ings,  their  faiths,  their  loves.  And  Orme  was  always 
at  her  side.  She  read  again  each  sentence  he  had 
underscored.  It  was  a  message  from  him.  Robert 
lived  in  the  world  of  Stoics.  She  said  she  would 
make  it  hers.  Its  thoughts  spun  themselves  into  her 
passionate  musings  on  her  unborn  child;  worked 
themselves  into  her  blood,  into  her  future,  exalted  her 
with  a  sense  of  omnipotence. 

By  slow  degrees,  as  Esther  went  from  loom  to 
book  and  from  book  to  loom,  her  sense  of  isolation 
and  exile,  so  natural  to  one  of  her  youth,  lessened. 
In  an  old  volume  she  found  an  engraving  of  Dion; 
and  she  continued  to  think  her  son  would  be  like 
the  great  Greek.  This  faith  was  new  strength. 
From  it  flowered  the  finest  shades  of  responsibility 
for  the  sacred  office  of  maternity.  Her  one  aspira 
tion  was  not  to  give  way  to  thoughts  or  feelings  un- 


246  ESTHER  DAMON 

worthy  to  reappear  in  her  son.  In  creating  her  child, 
she  herself  was  re-created. 

As  Esther  aged  mentally,  she  went  far  from  the 
orthodox  faith  of  her  parents;  but  she  was  never  so 
conscious  of  a  great  spiritual  destiny.  Mrs.  Da 
mon's  passion  for  perfection  took  possession  of  her. 
She  wished  to  cleanse  herself  of  every  impurity,  to 
burn  evil  out  of  her  being.  God  became  greater  than 
the  narrow,  Hebraic  God  of  her  father's  church. 
To  this  new  God,  the  loving  Father  of  all  the  world, 
she  often  knelt  and  prayed.  At  times  she  wished 
that  in  prayer  on  her  knees  she  might  pass  the 
period  of  suspense  until  her  child  should  be  born. 

But  this  cloudless  communion  was  inevitably  to  be 
interrupted.  Strangely  enough  it  was  Mrs.  Damon 
who  caused  Esther  to  realize  that  there  was  a  world 
outside  of  the  one  she  had  created  for  herself.  One 
day  Esther  heard  labored,  heavy  feet  crunching  in 
the  snow.  Even  before,  through  the  fantastically 
frosted  window  pane,  the  girl  espied  her  mother  ap 
proaching,  she  guessed  who  it  was.  It  needed  pre 
cisely  this  presence  for  Esther  with  her  higher  con 
science  to  accuse  herself  as  a  monster  of  selfishness 
who  had  wantonly  violated  her  parents'  home.  Her 
love  of  pleasure,  her  impatience,  her  tempests  of 
passion,  her  rebellion  crowded  her  brain,  as  she 
looked  at  the  wonderful,  old,  battered  face  of  her 
mother.  Then  the  stoical  calm  the  girl  had  tried 
to  acquire  became  fugitive.  She  distractedly  turned 
to  Mrs.  Brewster  whose  spectacles  were  interroga 
tion  points. 


THE  RESURRECTION   OF  A  SOUL         247 

"Well,  what  shall  I  do?"  that  valiant  woman 
asked.  "Shall  I  open  the  door?" 

What  should  she  do,  Esther  demanded  of  herself. 
There  was  an  interval  in  which  she  imagined  she 
could  hear  her  mother  breathing  on  the  other  side 
of  the  door.  The  two  alternatives  open  seemed 
equal  in  their  cruelty;  one  of  meeting  Mrs.  Damon, 
the  other  of  avoiding  her  by  taking  refuge  in  another 
room.  After  hurried,  confused  consideration,  Esther 
judged  it  less  unkind  to  spare  her  mother  the  sight 
of  her.  "I  can't  meet  mother,"  she  said  finally. 
"I  can't  bear  to  see  her  grieve.  .  .  .  Her  tenderness 
would  kill  me.  Tell  her  that,  Mrs.  Brewster,  won't 
you?  Say  everything  that's  kind  .  .  .  and  promise 
her  some  day  I'll  go  to  see  her  ...  I  can't 
now." 

Mrs.  Brewster  imagined  herself  supremely  kind  to 
Mrs.  Damon.  In  truth,  the  widow  was  merely  less 
brusque  than  usual.  Yet,  it  must  not  go  unacknowl 
edged  that  she  did  somewhat  repress  her  inclination 
to  flaunt  her  satisfaction  in  the  demonstrated  un- 
workability  of  the  Methodist  discipline.  The  visitor 
was  more  bent  than  half  a  year  before.  Her  smile 
was  richer  in  pathos.  In  the  soul  shining  from  the 
pathetic  eyes,  there  was  no  sign  of  desistance  from 
the  hourly  struggle  to  transform  imperfection  into 
perfection. 

"Well,  Mis'  Damon — "  the  widow  challenged  as 
if  two  armed  clerical  hosts  were  meeting  in  combat. 

Mrs.  Damon,  sitting  wearily  in  her  chair,  had  no 
show  of  courage  to  offer  in  return.  "I've  come  to 


248  ESTHER  DAMON 

see  my  daughter,  Mrs.  Brewster.  .  .  .  May  I  speak 
with  her?" 

Mrs.  Brewster  might  have  been  more  generous, 
but  she  fairly  sputtered,  "  You've  been  a  long  time 
about  it,  it  seems  to  me,  for  such  a  Christian  as  you 
are." 

The  visitor  was  not  a  doughty  opponent,  and  the 
widow  experienced  none  of  the  thrill  of  combat.  "So 
it  would  seem,  Mrs.  Brewster.  But  I  haven't  been 
very  well.  ...  I  thought  Jesus  would  call  me  home. 
He  didn't.  ...  I  dare  say  He  thinks  me  unpre 
pared." 

Mrs.  Brewster  could  now  exclaim  in  triumph, 
"Oh,  you  used  to  think  you  were  the  only  person 
in  Freedom  who  wasn't  going  straight  to  hell." 

"  Did  I  really  speak  that  way  ?  I  always  knew  my 
heart  was  unseemly.  Some  shortcoming  of  mine 
must  be  responsible  for  this  misfortune  of  my  poor 
daughter."  Mrs.  Damon  sat  with  folded  hands  and 
looked  up  with  a  touching  smile  as  she  asked,  "Did 
you  say  she  would  see  me  soon?" 

"No,  Mis'  Damon,  I  didn't,"  confessed  the 
widow,  somewhat  disconcerted.  "Mebbe  you  know 
Esther's  a  terrible  headstrong  girl.  If  she  gets  set 
in  her  way  you  can't  change  her  any  more  than  you 
can  stop  six  wild  horses  running  away.  That's  her 
natural  gait.  She  told  me  to  tell  you  she  just  couldn't 
bear  to  see  you  or  any  one  just  now.  By  and  by 
she  says  she'll  go  to  see  you." 

"Poor  Esther!"  Mrs.  Damon  made  a  pathetic 
effort  to  control  herself  as  she  inspected  the  broken 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         249 

finger-nails  of  her  yellow  hands  with  their  swollen 
purple  veins.  "She  was  always  such  a  proud  girl. 
Just  as  if  I  should  see  anything  of  her  but  how  she 
looked  when  she  was  a  baby,  and  all  the  way  up 
through  childhood.  But  I  know  how  she  feels. 
She's  a  very  good  child,  if  one  understands  her  as 
I  do.  ...  Is  she  well?"  She  added  anxiously,  "I 
hope  she's  not  too  sad." 

Mrs.  Brewster  rarely  confessed  herself  confounded, 
but  now  she  admitted,  "I  don't  know  whether  she 
is  or  not.  I  don't  understand  her  very  well.  She 
works  and  reads  her  head  off,  and  she's  away  up  in  the 
clouds  most  of  the  time.  Too  much  books.  I  don't 
know  what  is  in  her  head,  but  I  guess  it's  about  the 
future." 

Mrs.  Damon  rose,  and  taking  Mrs.  Brewster's 
hand  in  her  own  said:  "You'll  take  care  of  my  dear 
child,  won't  you?  Jesus  will  reward  you.  I'm  so 
grateful  you  gave  Esther  such  a  good  home." 
Glancing  toward  the  loom  she  asked,  "Is  this  where 
she  works,  Mrs.  Brewster?"  Mrs.  Damon  looked 
long  at  the  bright-colored  woof  with  which  the  loom 
was  filled.  "Ah,  that  was  it,"  she  sighed.  "The 
poor  girl  liked  those  rich  colors,  all  which  allured  the 
eye,  but  I  did,  too  ...  I  believed  that  Jesus  would 
help  her  as  He  did  me.  I'm  sure  He  will  yet.  When 
the  dear  child  started  to  weave  to  buy  herself  rib 
bons  she  wove  more  than  innocent  carpets  .  .  .  she 
wove  a  net  of  folly  and  error  in  which  her  young  feet 
tripped."  Mrs.  Damon  sat  for  some  time  in  silence, 
touching  tenderly  the  shuttle.  Presently  she  asked, 
"Does  Esther  work  hard?" 


250  ESTHER  DAMON 

"She  don't  have  to  work  hard,  Mrs.  Damon,  but 
she  does.  She  works  as  if  she  was  crazy.  She  does 
everything  as  if  she  was  crazy.  And  sometimes  she 
looks  as  if  she  was  crazy,  until  I  just  give  up." 

"That's  just  like  Esther,"  said  the  mother  fondly. 
"Her  life  was  always  a  fever;  but  God  loves  a  fiery 
servant.  If  only  she  would  come  to  Him." 

Mrs.  Brewster  sniffed.  "Esther's  all  right.  Lots 
of  folks  in  this  town  ain't  fit  to  black  her  boots.  She 
ain't  any  lazy-bones.  Last  week  she  made  eight  dol 
lars.  Every  week  she  makes  five  or  six." 

"So  much!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Damon  in  alarm. 
"I  hope  she  has  no  desire  to  lay  up  manna.  But 
she'll  need  money  when  she's  not  alone.  .  .  .  Do 
you  mind  showing  me  where  my  little  girl  sleeps, 
Mrs.  Brewster?" 

"She  locked  herself  in  her  room,"  confessed  the 
widow,  more  distressed  than  she  liked  by  the  emotion 
in  Mrs.  Damon's  face. 

"Oh,  I  so  wanted  to  see  her,"  the  mother  said  in 
unwilling  departure,  "because  .  .  .  we're  going  to 
Attica  to  live.  I'm  not  very  strong.  .  .  .  ' 

"Goin'  away  to  Attica?"  Mrs.  Brewster  had  the 
villager's  thrill  consequent  upon  being  the  first  to 
receive  an  important  official  communication.  Even 
Mrs.  Snead  had  not  preceded  her  and  wiped  the 
bloom  from  the  freshness  of  the  information.  "Why, 
who's  goin'  to  take  Elder  Damon's  place  here?" 

"  No  one.  It  was  decided  this  morning  to  close  the 
church." 

The  melancholy  with  which  the  minister's  wife 
spoke  was  wasted  on  Mrs.  Brewster.  To  the  widow 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         251 

it  was  the  latest  edition  of  news.  "You  don't 
say!" 

"Yes,  Brother  and  Sister  Hames  didn't  like  the 
sermon  my  husband  preached  on  Esther.  Then 
Brother  and  Sister  Killit  don't  want  to  come  any 
more."  The  mother  preferred  not  to  disclose  that 
since  the  discovery  of  Esther's  disgrace,  it  had  been 
agreed  among  the  church  members  that  the  day  of 
Elder  Damon's  effectiveness  as  a  minister  of  the 
Gospel  in  Freedom  was  past.  "My  husband  has 
had  so  much  encouragement  in  Attica  and  Olivet 
that  he  will  preach  only  in  those  two  places.  Will 
you  kindly  say  that  to  Esther,  and  will  you  tell  her 
.  .  .  we  leave  to-morrow?"  Mrs.  Damon  was  at 
the  door,  and  before  leaving  she  added,  "Mrs. 
Brewster,  will  you  make  her  understand  that  al 
though  her  father  will  not  admit  it,  I  think  he  regrets 
tearing  her  name  from  the  church  book.  Tell  her 
I  pray  always  for  her  salvation  ...  If  we  never 
meet  here,  we  shall  round  the  great  white  throne." 

The  mother  knelt  in  silent  prayer. 

The  long  sleigh  was  heaped  high  with  household 
belongings  of  familiar  aspect.  Esther,  looking  out 
at  the  vehicle  which  stopped  before  Mrs.  Brewster's 
house,  saw  the  humble  little  bed  that  had  been  hers, 
the  bed  of  her  girlhood.  The  portrait  of  Wesley 
looked  reluctant  to  depart.  It  was  the  beginning  of 
her  friendship  with  Orme.  There  was  the  modest 
mahogany  table,  the  horsehair  furniture,  and  every 
where  the  pride  of  the  family  uprooted  and  by  her 


252  ESTHER  DAMON 

turned  adrift.  Elder  Damon,  seated  on  the  side 
farther  from  Esther,  with  unremitting  severity, 
looked  straight  before  him;  but  the  mother's  tender 
eyes  were  gathering  one  last  impression  of  the  house 
which  sheltered  her  daughter  from  the  pitiless  ironies 
of  the  world. 

The  girl  recognized  the  conveyance  as  the  prop 
erty  of  Brother  Simpkins.  The  "hired  man"  in 
the  employ  of  that  brother  was  descending  from  his 
seat,  and  clapping  his  hands  to  ward  off  the  wintry 
chill.  He  brought  a  parcel  to  the  door.  Mrs. 
Brewster  received  it  while  Esther  pressed  her  face 
against  the  window  pane,  her  longing  glance  em 
bracing  and  caressing  her  mother.  As  the  sleigh 
started  off  once  more  toward  Attica,  Mrs.  Damon 
saw  Esther  and  blessed  her  with  the  regard  of  a 
saint,  a  saint  who  had  transcended  doubt.  But  the 
minister  had  no  benediction  for  Esther.  The  last 
tie  between  the  girl  and  her  home  was  severed. 
Her  father  had  abandoned  her.  He  had  abandoned 
Freedom. 

Colder  and  colder  grew  the  outcast  as  she  turned 
from  the  blurred  windows.  Shivering  in  her  shawl, 
she  huddled  piteously  over  the  package  in  her  hands, 
put  there  she  knew  not  when.  As  she  broke  the 
wrapping  cord,  how  the  sleighbells  tolled!  How 
tragic  seemed  the  driving  away  of  a  load  of  furniture ! 
From  the  paper  fell  a  fluttering  array  of  little  doll- 
sized  dresses,  quite  discolored  with  age.  Esther  per 
ceived  the  sweet  beauty  of  intention  in  the  offering, 
and  love  and  sorrow  took  her  heart  by  storm  in  a 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         253 

way  unknown  to  the  Stoics.  All  deepest  in  her  own 
mother  nature  possessed  her  as  she  buried  her  face 
in  the  tiny  flannel  garments.  Hot  tears  blurred  her 
eyes,  and  it  was  only  after  a  long  interval  that  she 
could  decipher  the  words  scrawled  by  the  rheumatic 
hands  of  her  mother: 


MY  POOR,  DARLING  ESTHER: 

Every  stitch  of  these  things  was  taken  in  love  and  with 
prayers  to  our  dear  God  to  bless  you,  the  baby  who  was  to 
wear  them.  I  have  always  kept  them.  Now  they're  yours 
with  the  same  love  and  the  same  prayers. 

I  deeply  desired  to  see  you  yesterday,  Esther.  I  had  much 
to  say  that  my  weak  hand  can  ill  express.  First,  I  think  the 
sun  will  soon  set  for  the  last  time  on  the  wrath  of  your  father. 
I  hope  it  will  not  be  long  before  I  can  persuade  him  to  allow 
you  to  come  home  to  us.  Your  father,  however,  is  not  of  a 
spirit  that  compromises  or  recants;  in  this  he  greatly  resem 
bles  the  prophets.  But  my  prayers  are  being  answered  and 
his  love  for  you  is  working  in  his  heart.  Though  he  himself 
does  not  mention  your  name,  he  has  allowed  me  to  speak  of 
you  repeatedly  during  the  past  fortnight.  You  know  I  take 
no  step  without  first  consulting  him,  and  yesterday  it  filled 
my  heart  with  bliss  and  thankfulness  that  when  I  told  him  I 
was  going  to  see  you  he  offered  no  objection.  On  my  return 
he  opened  the  door,  came  down  into  the  street  to  assist  me,  and 
looked  at  me  with  eager  questions  in  his  eyes.  He  said  noth 
ing,  but  listened;  and  last  evening,  despite  the  fact  that  it 
marked  a  sad  event,  he  seemed  very  happy.  His  last  prayer 
in  the  house  was  beautiful  as  I  have  rarely  known  his  prayers 
to  be. 

Dear  Esther,  I'm  going  away,  but  you  were  never  dearer 
to  me  than  you  are  now.  You  have  not  sinned  against  me, 
dear  daughter,  but  against  our  Heavenly  Father.  Let  Him 
be  your  friend.  Let  Him  help  you.  I  leave  you  in  His  care. 


254  ESTHER  DAMON 

And  I  am  beset  by  no  doubts  of  the  outcome;  for,  dear  daughter, 
of  late  I  have  had  wonderful  manifestations  of  the  blessed  Jesus. 
I  saw  you  in  a  vision  of  those  clothed  in  white  who  come  up 
through  great  tribulation  and  are  made  perfect  through  suffer 
ing.  I  saw  you  the  companion  of  angels.  I  saw  you  crowned. 
It  was  sounded  from  heaven  that  you  were  saved.  This  was 
while  I  was  ill,  and  no  vision  of  such  beauty  ever  before  blessed 
me.  I  believe  that  after  long  wandering  you  will  find  Him. 
Some  of  the  greatest  saints  were  those  who  strayed  longest  in 
darkness. 

Remember,  dear  child,  that  whatever  comes,  your  mother 
is  always  your  mother.  A  bridge  of  love  unites  us  that  can 
never  be  destroyed.  I  will  come  to  you  whenever  you  wish. 
'The  Lord  watch  between  me  and  Thee  while  we  are  absent 
one  from  another.' 

MOTHER. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  larks  came  north  with  their  southern  songs  of 
love.  Hyacinths  and  narcissus,  all  the  fairer  in  their 
beauty  which  had  slept  under  the  snow,  ruled  the  day 
in  Freedom.  One  morning  Esther  awoke  with  a 
sense  of  renewal  of  spring  in  her  own  heart.  Her  son 
was  at  her  side.  His  dimples,  his  rosiness,  his  soft, 
fuzzy  head,  his  every  movement  was  to  her  a  grace. 
His  every  feature  was  an  exquisite  flower  now  for  the 
first  time  giving  its  sweet  breath  to  the  air.  His  low 
wail  made  her  understand  why  a  tigress  burned  to 
death  in  her  cage  rather  than  leave  her  young  and 
escape  alone.  When  the  mother  felt  the  contact  of 
the  warm,  small  body;  knew  the  velvety  touch  of 
this  tiny,  appealing  creature  for  whom  she  had  ex 
changed  reputation,  parents,  home,  he  was  the  more 
dear  for  his  exorbitant  cost. 

As  Esther  regained  her  strength  it  came  over  her 
that  no  longer  were  her  own  experiences  the  basis 
of  her  life.  Nature  had  taken  the  plastic,  passion 
ate,  self-centred  girl  and  made  of  her  a  woman  who 
existed  only  in  her  son.  Before  his  birth  her  every 
thought  and  feeling  had  been  concentrated  in  an  en 
deavor  to  instil  into  him  some  rare  super-human  per 
fection.  Now  her  every  care  was  for  the  child's  fut 
ure.  Only  that  portion  of  the  world  relating  to  him 

255 


256  ESTHER  DAMON 

concerned  his  mother,  or  rather,  he  became  for  her 
the  centre  of  the  world. 

That  on  occasions  there  rose  from  the  submerged 
past  a  reproachful  reminder  of  the  girl  she  once 
had  been,  merely  caused  her  to  feel  more  sharply 
estranged  from  her  buried  existence.  One  of  these 
resurgent  images  confronted  her  when  Mrs.  Brewster 
deprecatingly,  as  if  ashamed  of  being  entrapped  in  a 
kindness,  laid  at  her  side  a  lavender  gingham  dress. 
Esther  caught  herself  in  the  frivolity  of  liking  the 
lavender  dress.  Then  wonder  broke  over  her  that 
there  had  been  a  phase  of  her  existence  when  rib 
bons,  laces,  lavender  dresses,  and  personal  adornment 
were  of  superlative  value.  The  confirmation  of  their 
transient  hour  of  reality  was  in  the  lavender  gingham. 
How  she  must  have  chattered  of  it  in  those  far-off, 
forgotten  days  before  she  had  a  son  to  nurture, 
clothe,  and  protect — a  son  for  whom  to  pass  restless 
nights;  to  shield  from  every  sound,  every  treacherous 
current  of  air,  every  unkind  look  or  word. 

Small  and  dependent  as  was  the  baby,  he  ruled 
Esther's  loom,  Mrs.  Brewster's  house,  Mrs.  Brewster 
herself.  The  women  were  sorry  they  couldn't  give 
him  the  moon  and  stars.  When  once  more  Esther 
resumed  her  usual  duties  she  knew  the  pang  of  daily 
separation  from  her  child;  but  he  easily  habituated 
himself  to  inattention ;  with  the  drone  of  the  loom  in 
his  ears,  he  slept  always  before  his  mother's  eyes  in  a 
dingy  little  cradle. 

The  other  weavers  had  long  since  been  transferred 
to  the  new  cabin  on  the  hill,  and  so  Esther  thus  far 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         257 

had  encountered  none  of  the  villagers.  The  coming 
of  the  child  had  awakened  in  Mrs.  Brewster  un 
wonted  delicacies  and  consideration  for  her  boarder. 
She  even  thought  to  spare  Esther  the  bulletin  of  the 
neighbors'  comments;  suffered  her  to  remain  in 
ignorance  of  the  remark  made  by  Mrs.  Snead  that  it 
was  a  pity  the  Damon  girl  and  her  baby  hadn't 
died — they  both  would  have  been  better  off.  The 
widow  did  not  mention  that  the  neighbors  avoided 
the  house  as  plague-infested;  there  was  a  high  ten 
sion  of  horror  in  the  community.  In  consequence, 
Esther  bade  fair  to  forget  the  irreproachable  moral 
book-keeping  of  the  village. 

Her  first  reminder  of  the  existence  of  an  extra 
neous  world  came  one  day  when  she  saw  Orme  ap 
proach — approach  slowly,  as  if  to  give  her  time  to 
prepare  for  his  coming,  for  the  pain  of  it  and  of  his 
association  with  the  outer  facts  of  life.  Sight  of  him 
instantly  revealed  to  Esther  that  her  friend  was  a 
part  of  that  established  conscience  which  must 
always  remain  hostile  to  her  and  her  child.  There 
was  no  time  to  reflect  on  alternatives.  For  her,  in 
deed,  there  was  but  one.  Directly  she  saw  Robert 
she  dropped  the  shuttle  and  seized  her  son  in  her 
arms.  Thus  she  sat  when  the  visitor  appeared  in  the 
doorway. 

Hitherto  Orme  had  seen  Esther  only  in  the  dull 
garb  of  a  Methodist.  Now  she  was  clad  in  the 
lavender  gingham  dress.  Her  eyes  were  downcast. 
Her  flaming  hair  was  in  luxuriant  plaits  which  sur 
mounted  and  emphasized  like  a  diadem  the  high 


258  ESTHER  DAMON 

dignity  of  her  head.  There  came  over  him  a  vision 
of  some  immaculate,  consecrated  mother  who,  in 
her  human  state,  blushed  and  wondered  if  she  had 
sinned  because  she  had  brought  into  the  world  and 
held  in  her  arms  a  god.  Esther  raised  her  glance 
with  unwavering  directness  to  Orme,  scanned  his 
every  lineament  for  censure.  She  saw  only  gentle 
ness  and  consideration.  Then  she  coerced  her 
trembling  voice  to  say,  "This  is  my  son,  Dion,  Mr. 
Orme." 

"I  am  glad  you  look  as  happy  as  the  mother  of 
Dion  should,"  he  answered.  The  little  one  held 
out  a  rosy  finger  and  gripped  Robert's  coat.  This 
act  seemed  to  seal  a  bond  between  the  three. 

"I'm  happy,"  Esther  went  on  nervously,  as  if 
trying  to  catch  her  breath,  "for  I've  forgotten  my 
self.  I  know  now  why  you  always  kept  up  so 
splendidly.  You  adopted  all  the  poor  and  unhappy. 
They're  your  children.  .  .  .  But  how  are  you?" 

"Oh,  I—  '  he  smiled  deprecatingly,  as  if  em 
barrassed  by  the  topic. 

"How  is  the  factory  getting  on?" 

"Splendidly.  We  have  new  workmen.  One 
young  fellow  walked  a  hundred  miles  just  to  come 
here.  He  arrived  barefoot.  He  wants  to  go  to 
college.  He  understands  making  stained  glass  win 
dows  and  he  wishes  to  do  some  for  the  work-shop. 
We  have  given  him  the  opportunity."  Robert 
always  used  the  "we"  in  preference  to  "I."  "Our 
botany  class  is  soon  going  out  on  an  expedition. 
Can't  you  join  us?" 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         259 

Orme  endeavored  to  speak  as  if  this  course  for 
her  were  generally  expected,  but  his  words  showed 
Esther  fresh  difficulties.  "I  dread  that  horribly. 
I'm  so  happy  here.  .  .  .  Why  should  I  leave?  I 
like  being  alone."  She  looked  down  at  her  child  as 
if  the  breath  of  the  world  coming  through  the  open 
door  would  blight  him. 

"Don't  you  think,  Esther,  you  should  consider 
your  son  in  coming  back?"  He  paused  for  her  en 
tirely  to  grasp  this  before  he  added,  "It  must  happen 
sometime,  you  know." 

She  caught  his  inference  immediately.  "I  under 
stand,"  she  said  faintly.  "You  think  it  best  for 
people  to  get  used  to  me  as  soon  as  possible  .  .  . 
Yes,  the  world  must  get  used  to  me." 

"Don't  put  it  that  way,  Esther.  I  only  suggest 
that  you  take  your  place  in  it.  You  will  .  .  .  one 
day." 

She  held  her  face  close  to  the  baby's  and  sighed. 
"You're  right,  Mr.  Orme.  I  should  take  my  place 
as  the  mother  of  Dion  .  .  .  the  sooner  the  better." 
She  rose  and  Orme  saw  she  was  prepared  for  im 
mediate  action.  He  realized  that  because  of  her 
extraordinary  capacity  for  converting  thought  into 
deed,  conversation  with  her  was  a  grave  responsi 
bility.  "If  I  don't  go  now  every  one  will  think  I 
am  afraid  or  ashamed  of  Dion.  .  .  .  I'm  not.  Dion 
and  I  were  so  happy  that  I  wanted  to  remain  here 
with  him  and  my  work.  .  ,  .  Now  I  see  my  doing 
so  was  very  selfish." 

Robert  watched  her  make  preparations  to  go  into 


26o  ESTHER  DAMON 

the  streets.  Understanding  the  moral  climate  of  the 
village,  he  would  have  had  her  postpone  her  first 
appearance  in  Freedom;  but  her  courage  thrilled 
him.  He  walked  to  the  gate  with  her,  the  baby  coo 
ing  in  her  arms.  She  swayed  a  little  as  she  moved. 
Catching  her  breath  she  offered  this  explanation :  "  I 
haven't  walked  much  before." 

"I  don't  think  I'd  go  to-day,"  he  urged  anxiously. 
"I  really  didn't  mean  you  should  do  that.  You're 
not  strong  enough,  Esther.  Remain  at  home  a  few 
days  longer,  and  then  come  up  to  one  of  my  talks. 
You  can  go  into  the  village  any  time." 

Grateful  for  his  tenderness,  still  she  persisted: 
"No,  I  may  as  well  make  the  start  now.  If  I  don't, 
they'll  say  I'm  a  coward.  If  I  am  one,  Dion  will 
be  influenced  by  it  ...  and  so  we  both  must  go." 

Robert  said  good-by,  but  he  did  not  go  away. 
He  remained  watching  Esther  as  she  plunged  into 
the  doubtful  medium  of  the  village — a  magnificent, 
untrammelled  spirit  predestined  to  follow  her  largest 
vision.  There  was  no  pillory  in  Freedom,  but  the 
forebears  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  hamlet  had  lived 
under  Connecticut  Blue  Laws;  had  branded  with 
hot  irons  and  hanged  by  the  neck  until  dead  such 
unhappy  culprits  as  Esther  Damon.  As  the  woman 
went  her  way  it  was  the  blood  of  those  Puritans  that 
looked  and  spoke.  It  spoke  when  Mrs.  Snead — the 
moral  Gibralter  of  the  town — an  open  Bible  before 
her,  seated  at  the  window,  called  to  her  husband, 
' '  Snead ,  come  here,  Snead . ' '  The  deacon  apparently 
responded  to  the  summons.  The  next  words  whirred 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         261 

into  Esther's  ears,  "Well,  if  she  ain't  what  I  call 
brassy." 

How  the  world  could  hurt!  It  seemed  to  Esther 
as  if  she  could  never  raise  her  head  again.  Just  then 
the  baby  stirred,  smiled,  and  looked  up  at  his  mother 
with  wide  blue  eyes.  And  love  gave  her  courage  to 
go  on  with  head  uplifted.  Freedom,  like  the  larger 
world,  lied  about  its  sins,  hid  them,  strangled  them, 
did  all  but  face  them.  This  girl  took  refuge  in  none 
of  these  moral  obliquities,  but  with  calm  courage  ap 
peared  in  the  streets,  her  unlawful  offspring  in  her 
arms,  as  if  he  had  a  right  to  be.  Such  conduct  as 
tonished  the  inhabitants  and  filled  them  with  terror 
much  as  if  a  beast  of  prey  had  burst  from  its  cage, 
and  athirst  for  the  blood  of  innocence,  with  her  sav 
age  young  roamed  the  quiet,  shaded  thoroughfares. 
Esther  recognized  the  hostility  in  the  atmosphere.  It 
was  difficult  for  her  to  breathe  this  heavy,  poisonous 
air.  The  young  girls  she  met  strolling  hatless,  arm 
in  arm,  as  in  the  old  days  she  had  walked  with  them, 
cast  furtive  glances  at  her.  Their  whispered  com 
ments  were  like  a  loud  outcry. 

She  entered  the  post-office,  asked  for  letters — 
sometime  she  must  do  this,  why  not  now? — The 
clerk  smiled  at  the  oddity  of  Esther's  assumption. 
Block  by  block  she  advanced,  occasionally  touching 
her  baby's  head  with  her  lips.  Just  as  she  reached 
the  corner  on  which  stood  Wherritt's  store  she  saw, 
pausing  near  the  watering  trough,  Lucy  Yates,  in  a 
stiffly  starched  pink  dress.  What  a  world  had  come 
between  her  and  Lucy.  Esther  wondered  if  her 


262  ESTHER  DAMON 

friend  had  forgotten  the  years  they  had  played  to 
gether.  With  a  sweet,  silent  greeting,  Esther  recog 
nized  Lucy  in  the  distance.  At  this  the  terrified 
little  maiden  forgot  her  pretty  manners  and  pro 
testations.  Her  one  thought  was  how  to  avoid  her 
school-fellow.  Lucy  plainly  reasoned  that  Esther 
either  would  enter  Wherritt's  or  follow  the  direct 
way  to  the  farther  end  of  the  village.  So  she  beat 
a  disconcerted  flight  across  the  street  to  Spear's. 

Esther  realized  that  after  so  great  a  violation  of  the 
community  laws  as  her  own,  it  was  foolish  to  count  on 
the  devotion  of  her  friends.  But  Lucy's  defection 
showed  her  in  how  many  ways  she  could  suffer.  She 
determined  never  again  to  speak  to  any  one  in  Free 
dom.  When  some  of  the  loungers  at  the  corners 
saluted  her,  she  gave  no  sign  of  observing  them. 

The  large  rambling  white  residence  of  Dr.  Yates 
had  always  been  like  a  second  home  to  Esther. 
Before  it  she  encountered  a  kindly  voice,  that  of 
the  physician,  who  emerged  from  the  well-cared-for 
garden.  As  he  took  his  place  in  his  carriage  he 
bade  her  "good  evening";  but  already  she  had 
begun  to  live  as  if  she  inhabited  another  universe. 
Dr.  Yates  would  not  allow  her  to  pass.  He  got 
down  from  the  vehicle,  hastened  after  Esther,  took 
her  hand  and  said,  "Come,  Esther,  I'm  not  going  to 
allow  you  to  do  that.  I'm  your  friend.  You  must 
always  remember  it."  Her  silent,  quivering  lips 
were  her  answer.  "I  tell  my  wife  and  Lucy  we  are 
not  cannibals,  but  we  all  behave  as  if  we  were. 
I'd  like  to  have  them  go  to  see  you." 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         263 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  as  she  went  on,  unable  to 
utter  more. 

She  walked  to  the  outer  rim  of  the  village,  crossed 
the  road,  and,  trembling,  came  back  on  the  side  of 
the  tavern.  Avoiding  that  would  have  been  to 
abandon  part  of  her  heroism,  to  admit  that  she  and 
her  son  had  no  right  to  pass  before  the  place  where 
Dion's  father  lived.  She  heard  the  click  of  the  bill 
iard  balls  at  the  Ivy  Green.  The  sound  stirred  in 
her  apprehension  that  Harry  would  see  her,  see  his 
son,  and  seeing  him  in  all  his  precious  beauty,  would 
desire  to  contend  with  her  for  possession  of  him. 
This  unsophisticated  thought  caused  the  mother  to 
startle  the  child  with  the  violence  of  her  embrace 
until  a  long,  strange  wail  echoed  through  the  open 
space  of  the  Four  Corners,  filled  them  and  the  twi 
light  with  horror.  "Hush,  Dion!"  she  whispered, 
"Hush."  But  already  the  weird,  primitive  shriek 
had  pierced  the  ears  of  the  loiterers.  They  showed 
themselves  at  the  entrance  of  Clancy's,  Wherritt's, 
Spear's,  Hood's — a  great  composite  countenance  in 
which  amusement,  revulsion,  and  ferocity  were  so 
unmasked  that  a  spectator  might  have  felt  that  the 
village  had  sinned  more  than  Esther  Damon. 

Slowly  she  came  back,  as  if  walking  in  treacherous, 
boggy  mire.  With  every  step  she  realized  anew  the 
pressure  of  the  hard,  accepted  laws  of  life.  Home 
once  more.  Orme,  still  waiting,  stood  motionless, 
held  by  amazement,  admiration  and  fear  for  her. 

"I  never  thought  you'd  finish  it,"  he  said  in  awe, 
however  did  you,  Esther?" 


264  ESTHER  DAMON 

"Perhaps  I  never  could,"  she  answered  as  with  a 
last  flicker  of  strength,  "if  you  hadn't  taught  me 
.  .  .  what  you  have." 

"Ah,  no,"  he  replied,  "some  things  can't  be 
taught." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AFTER  their  first  startling  appearance,  Esther  Da 
mon  and  her  child  no  longer  occasioned  confusion 
when  they  showed  themselves  in  the  village.  Im 
maculate  matrons  and  maidens  were  surprised  that 
the  offender  addressed  none  and  expected  no  greet 
ings.  Nor  did  she  try  to  seduce  the  unspotted  from 
their  ways  of  virtue.  She  wished  to  exist  alone  with 
her  son.  Soon  the  mother  and  child  became  an 
unreal  picture  floating  through  the  town.  But  while 
the  lambs  and  doves  were  in  a  measure  habituated 
to  the  sight  of  Esther  and  the  evidence  of  her  sin, 
the  sinner  stood  out  against  the  white  background 
of  their  own  purity  as  the  object  of  most  lurid 
interest  in  the  annals  of  the  village. 

Every  evening,  in  her  determination  that  Dion 
should,  from  the  beginning,  take  his  place  in  the 
world  on  the  same  plane  with  other  children  more 
happily  born,  Esther  walked  with  the  large,  blue- 
eyed,  healthy  boy  in  her  arms.  In  her  endeavor  to 
avoid  the  hurt  of  eyes  without  tenderness  or  charity, 
the  mother  seldom  looked  up  from  Dion's  face,  but 
there  were  felicitous  moments  when  she  fancied  a 
stranger  smiled  upon  her  son.  With  a  fond,  quick 
ening  throb  of  the  spirit  she  saw  her  baby  compel 
recognition  for  himself.  Ah,  it  would  come  to  that! 
They  must  all  love  him  as  she  loved  him. 

265 


266  ESTHER  DAMON 

During  one  of  her  evening  strolls  she  paused  before 
the  Freedom  Academy  building.  In  that  formal 
structure  she  had  skimmed  lightly  the  surface  of 
life.  The  sight  of  the  school-house  door  unlatched 
a  wide  vision  for  the  future  of  her  son.  Here  Dion 
should  go  to  school.  But  on  reflection  she  thought 
it  wiser  that  he  be  kept  from  others  of  his  own  age 
lest,  while  too  young  to  accept  the  truth,  he  should 
be  saddened  by  the  stain  of  his  mother.  She  herself 
would  teach  him  until  Orme  could  take  up  his  edu 
cation.  In  the  meantime,  how  she  would  work! 
Esther  had  been  thwarted  in  a  desire  to  go  to  college; 
but  what  self-denial  she  would  make  that  at  the  earli 
est  possible  age  her  son  might  enter  the  university 
where  Robert  had  taken  his  degree.  Even  this  did 
not  satisfy  the  maternal  ambition.  Soaring  with  her 
fancy,  Esther  traversed  the  sea  to  another  more  re 
nowned  institution  of  learning.  Under  the  spell  of 
her  vision  she  walked  slowly  onward  into  the  country ; 
and — why  not  abandon  herself  to  the  dream  ? — in  the 
rosy  vista  of  the  years  she  saw  herself  cross  the  ocean 
with  Dion.  Drifting  thus  in  a  fantastic  medium  she 
smiled,  and  smiled  as  she  mused. 

By  degrees,  however,  her  dreams  were  interrupted 
by  the  consciousness  of  a  shadow  that  rose  and  fell, 
drew  near,  paused,  and  then  retreated.  Some  one 
was  following  her  noiselessly,  as  a  hunter  creeps  after 
a  bird.  Esther  walked  on  slowly.  Advancing,  she 
noticed  a  familiar  sound  in  the  foot-fall,  a  sound 
once  heard  by  her  in  a  half  swoon  of  delight.  Yes, 
she  was  being  pursued,  and  by  the  man  whose  name 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         267 

she  had  not  spoken,  which  none  had  mentioned  in  a 
twelvemonth.  In  the  early  days  sometimes  she  had 
felt  she  must  make  an  outcry  of  his  name  in  the  street ; 
that  if  only  once  without  restraint  she  might  utter  it, 
her  tension  would  be  relieved.  But  she  had  choked 
it  down  until  it  was  suffused  throughout  all  her  being. 
She  wondered  if  his  name  were  not  also  in  the  blood 
of  Dion;  if  the  child  did  not  quicken  at  the  approach 
of  his  father.  So  inveterate  an  idealist  was  she,  and 
so  inaccessible  to  realization  of  the  baseness  which 
had  destroyed  her,  that  often  there  had  risen  in  her 
the  desire  to  seek  him,  to  make  a  sign  to  him,  to 
speak  a  word  with  him  of  their  son.  Now  here  he 
was.  She  stood  still,  as  she  invited  his  approach. 

"Esther!"  Yes,  that  was  his  voice.  It  yet  had  for 
her  an  agitating  charm;  it  belonged  to  him  who  led 
her  into  a  wonderful  garden  of  romance.  "Esther!" 
He  was  now  quite  close  at  her  heels.  She  listened. 
No  note  of  tenderness  was  in  the  tone.  No  echo  of 
love  lingered  in  the  voice.  She  turned  her  head  not 
a  hair's-breadth  to  see  him.  After  so  long  a  delay,  he 
himself  must  come  every  inch  of  the  way.  Her  one 
thought  was  the  fear  that  he  wanted  Dion.  She  tight 
ened  her  embrace  of  the  child  and  waited. 

Clancy  was  not  embarrassed,  nor  confused,  nor 
humbled,  as  he  stood  in  Esther's  presence.  Nature 
had  protected  him  at  his  birth.  He  was  non-moral. 
All  discomposure  was  for  her.  She  must  still  con 
tinue  to  pay.  In  the  first  glance  she  saw  her  lover 
as  he  was;  saw  more  than  the  pleasing  contour  of 
the  handsome  face;  saw  the  meaning  in  the  beau- 


268  ESTHER  DAMON 

tiful,  cruel,  womanish  lips,  in  the  self-indulgent,  pro 
trusive,  blue  eyes.  Though  there  was  no  reflection  of 
a  lingering  afterglow  of  love  in  his  gaze,  Esther  dis 
covered  there  a  premeditated  endeavor  to  re-exert  his 
old  charm.  But  this  effort  collapsed  into  clumsi 
ness. 

A  sudden  horror  of  him  possessed  her.  She  had 
desired  him  to  see  the  child;  but  now  she  wanted 
nothing  so  much  as  to  separate  her  son  from  his  father. 
Dion's  gold  hair  and  blue,  flower-like  eyes  seemed  to 
be  entirely  of  her  own  dreams,  of  her  own  heart  beats, 
of  her  own  flesh  and  blood.  Clutching  her  child  in  a 
sudden  fear  of  losing  him,  she  started  forward.  The 
baby  wailed  in  terror.  Clancy  hurried  by  her  side, 
saying,  "Esther,  don't  run  away.  I've  wanted  to  talk 
with  you  for  a  long  time.  You  know  how  hard  it  is  in 
a  place  like  this  to  see  any  one  without  its  getting  out. 
But  I  had  to  meet  you." 

She  paused  to  listen.  The  offence  she  had  feared 
was  some  fancied  claim  of  Clancy's  upon  the  child. 
Now  she  saw  him  oblivious,  careless  of  her  son's 
presence.  Then  something  within  her  died.  Her 
garden  of  romance  withered  under  the  touch  of  real 
ity.  Harry  was  as  far  removed  from  her  as  one  of 
the  beasts  gazing  at  them  over  the  fence. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  with  a  show  of  impa 
tience.  "Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?" 

In  spite  of  her  tone,  chilled  with  irony,  his  smile 
of  gratitude  came.  "You  mean,  Esther,  I'm  always 
after  you  to  do  things  for  me." 

"No,"  she  returned,  re-experiencing  the  old  fer- 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         269 

ment  of  horrors  and  suffering,  "I  mean  nothing 
except  hurry,  hurry  .  .  .  and  have  it  over  with." 

"I  guess,  Esther,  I  always  do  ask  things  of  you. 
That's  because  you're  such  a  nice  girl.  You  never 
would  ask  anything  of  me.  If  you  had,  things 
would  have  been  different.  Why  didn't  you  tell 
me?  I  didn't  intend  that.  ...  It  was  pretty  bad." 

Esther  shuddered  as  he  endeavored  to  place  her 
in  the  wrong  and  establish  himself  as  a  well-meaning, 
nobly-inclined  individual.  Determined  as  she  always 
had  been  never  to  thrust  herself  upon  Harry  as  a 
sacrifice,  she  shook  the  tears  back  into  her  eyes  and 
said,  "Have  I  ever  complained?" 

"No,  Esther,  no,  you  never  did." 

"Wait  until  I  do  before  you  talk  about  the  past," 
she  answered,  with  indignation  which  saved  her  from 
a  flood  of  emotion.  "What  do  you  want?" 

"I  shouldn't  speak  of  it  to  you,  Esther,"  he 
stammered,  realizing  that  the  moment  was  not  his, 
"but  you  were  always  such  a  sweet  girl.  You 
might  have  made  a  lot  of  trouble  .  .  .  you  didn't 
...  I  know  you'll  help  me."  He  touched  surer 
ground  as  he  proceeded.  "I  don't  know  how  you 
feel  after  all  this  time  .  .  .  but  you  used  to  like  me. 
I  don't  believe  you  want  to  worry  me  now."  He 
paused  and  looked  down  at  the  ground.  "Things 
aren't  pleasant  at  home  .  .  .  You  can  help  me  out 
if  you  will." 

"What  can  I  do?"  she  asked  quietly,  looking  at 
the  child. 

"Well,  Esther,"  he  said,  with  the  awkward  manner 


270  ESTHER  DAMON 

of  one  who  rarely  attacks  a  difficult  situation,  "it's 
like  this,  Esther.  Every  time  you  pass  the  hotel, 
the  fellows  joke  me  about  it."  He  hesitated  and 
then  went  on,  "I  don't  mind  it  so  much — a  man  must 
give  and  take — but,"  he  endeavored  to  touch  her  arm, 
as  if  that  assisted  him  to  make  his  point.  "Every 
time  you  appear  my  wife  goes  off  into  a  faint.  She 
raises  an  awful  fuss.  I'll  leave  Freedom  if  I  have 
any  more  of  this  kind  of  trouble.  What  I  want  to 
ask  is  ...  if  you  won't  please  stop  carrying  the 
baby  round  town  every  day." 

She  raised  her  eyes.  Her  glance  hushed  him  as 
he  endeavored  to  proceed,  "I  hope " 

She  shook  herself  loose  from  him,  and  quickly 
turned  toward  the  village.  But  it  seemed  that  some 
thing  of  his  corruption  adhered  to  her,  something 
she  could  never  throw  off.  Did  one  hour  bury  an 
other?  Could  she  never  advance  beyond  what  was 
gone?  Would  the  past  always  creep  after  her  as 
he  had  come? 

"Now,  Esther,"  Harry  said,  pursuing  her,  "don't 
go  to  see  my  wife,  will  you?  You're  sensible  and 
reasonable  .  .  .  Don't  make  a  row  after  being  so 
nice.  Listen,  Esther,"  he  added,  endeavoring  to  ar 
rest  her  hurrying  steps.  "Don't  go  back  till  we've 
had  this  thing  out.  Stop  right  here  .  .  .  Promise  me 
if  you  must  walk  you'll  go  in  another  direction." 

She  had  heard  enough,  too  much.  Her  shame 
choked  in  her  throat.  Rage  of  a  sort  she  had  never 
dreamed  of  shook  her.  Oh,  to  have  the  strength 
to  be  a  murderer  and  see  his  blood  run  out  drop 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         271 

by  drop!  She  tried  to  speak,  but  passion  made  her 
dumb.  After  what  seemed  a  long  time,  but  was 
really  only  a  moment,  her  voice  came  in  a  queer, 
grating  whisper,  "Don't  you  understand  I'm  this 
child's  mother?" 

She  ran  toward  the  town,  her  head  sunken  to  that 
of  her  child,  fleeing  as  though  from  desolation,  mad 
ness,  darkness,  and  death. 

"Esther!"  came  another  voice.  She  looked  up. 
There  was  Orme. 

He  did  not  know  what  had  passed  between  her 
and  Clancy,  but  she  seemed  as  if  huge,  brutal  hands 
had  crushed  her.  White  of  lip  and  cheek,  Robert 
stood  staring  after  Harry,  and  Esther  realized  how 
men  look  when  they  lunge  at  each  other's  throats. 
Orme  turned  his  glance  to  her,  a  glance  which  con 
cealed  much,  revealed  much.  "Let  me  do  something 
for  you  .  .  .  everything.  I  don't  care  what  it  is, 
Esther." 

"Forget  what  you  have  seen  this  evening,"  was  her 
answer  as  she  went  on. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

MRS.  BREWSTER  was  standing  at  the  gate  when 
Esther  returned  to  the  house.  "You  can  never 
guess  who's  waiting  for  you." 

"My  mother?"  the  girl  questioned  in  alarm. 

Lucy  Yates  came  to  the  screen  door.  "Esther! 
Esther!"  she  cried.  Mrs.  Brewster  held  the  baby 
while  Esther  and  Lucy  embraced  like  two  long 
separated  lovers.  They  hugged  each  other,  they 
wept,  they  laughed.  Lucy  spoke  first:  "I've  always 
wanted  to  come  .  .  .  always,  but  mamma,  poor  old 
dearest,  is  afraid  of  everything.  Papa  and  I  had 
our  way.  You  ought  to  have  heard  Robert  Orme 
talk,  too.  I  never  saw  you,  but  I  wanted  to  touch 
your  hand  and  tell  you  I  still  loved  you.  No  one 
could  make  me  believe  you  were  bad  and  horrid 
and  terrible." 

"I'm  so  glad  you  came  to-night,"  Esther  said, 
caressing  Lucy.  "I  need  you  ...  so  much.  I'm 
rich  .  .  .  I've  a  new  friend." 

"I'm  going  to  stay  all  night  with  you,  Esther,  just 
as  I  used  to  in  the  old  days,"  said  Lucy.  And  she 
did.  They  could  not  waste  time  in  sleep,  and  so 
they  talked  until  dawn. 

Shortly  after  Lucy's  departure,  the  following  morn 
ing,  Robert  appeared  in  Mrs.  Brewster's  sitting- 

272 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL          273 

room,  took  a  seat  by  Esther's  loom,  watched  the 
gladness  and  gratitude  in  her  eyes  as  she  told  him 
of  her  friend's  return.  Esther  guessed  the  hours  of 
struggle  he  and  the  physician  had  had  with  Mrs. 
Yates  to  obtain  her  consent  to  Lucy's  visit.  Mrs. 
Brewster  came  into  the  room.  "Sit  down,  Aunty," 
he  said. 

"No,  I  never  loll  around  and  twirl  my  fingers  in 
the  forenoon,"  she  replied. 

"Please  do,"  he  insisted.  "I'd  like  to  talk  with 
both  you  and  Esther." 

Mrs.  Brewster  compromised  by  seating  herself  on 
the  lounge  and  sewing  rags  for  a  carpet.  "Fire 
ahead,"  she  said. 

"I'm  going  to  buy  back  the  old  home,"  Orme 
announced. 

"You  be!"  Mrs.  Brewster  pricked  her  finger 
with  her  needle.  "Well,  you  are  a  smart  boy.  I 
tell  you  what,  you'll  make  these  folks  squirm  yet." 

Esther  turned  in  her  chair  as  Orme  gave  the  news. 
Her  eyes  expanded  wide.  She  laid  a  felicitating 
hand  upon  his.  "I'm  so  glad  for  you.  Everything 
will  come  to  you  because  you  are  so  good  to  others. 
I  hope  you  will  grow  very  rich." 

He  laughed.  "That  isn't  what  I'm  trying  for," 
he  said.  "No  one  is  good  enough  to  be  rich.  I  want 
to  make  things  right  with  you  and  Aunty  Brewster 
and  all  who  have  worked  for  me." 

Neither  of  the  women  understood.  "What  do  you 
mean  by  making  things  right?"  Esther  asked. 

"I  have  several  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank  at 


274  ESTHER  DAMON 

Ripon,"  Robert  explained.  "It's  all  profit  from 
your  work.  I've  cheated  you." 

Mrs.  Brewster  laid  aside  her  sewing.  "Oh,  you 
get  out,  Bobby.  You've  paid  me  twice  as  much  as 
any  one  else  ever  did." 

"Nevertheless  I  have  cheated  you,"  Robert  held 
out.  "Oh,  it  was  legal  cheating,  but  if  I  paid  you 
what  you  really  earned  I  should  have  had  no  more 
than  you.  I  didn't.  I  am  very  well  off  while  those 
who  created  my  bank  account  are  poor.  I  was  at 
best  a  parasite,  and  at  worst  a  thief.  Now  I'm 
going  to  give  the  money  all  back  to  you  who 
made  it." 

Mrs.  Brewster  allowed  her  rags  to  fall  in  a  heap. 
"You're  crazy,  plumb  crazy!  What  book  did  you 
get  all  them  ideas  out  of?" 

"Life,"  Robert  explained.  "I  was  a  laborer  for  a 
year.  I  saw  my  employers  profit  by  my  work. 
They  were  on  the  way  to  being  rich  men.  After 
I  established  the  factory,  every  day  I  realized  I  was 
robbing  the  people  who  worked  for  me.  I  tried  to 
teach  them,  to  give  them  short  hours,  high  wages, 
the  use  of  my  house ;  but  paternalism  doesn't  sat 
isfy.  My  property  is  all  theft.  I've  come  to  ask 
you  in  what  form  you  would  like  your  share  re 
turned." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Orme,"  Esther  replied,  "I've  had  my 
share.  Every  one  has,  and  more.  You've  made  so 
many  of  us  happy.  You've  brought  lots  of  money  to 
Freedom.  Think  of  all  you've  done  for  the  village." 

Robert  was  a  little  scornful  as  he  repeated,  "Done 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL          275 

for  the  village.  I've  robbed  it.  I  have  a  bank  ac 
count  of  ill-gotten  gains  to  prove  it." 

"But  you've  been  so  kind  to  every  one,"  Esther 
argued.  "No  one  has  done  so  much." 

"Perhaps  I  haven't  been  quite  so  brutal  in  my 
money-getting  as  some  others,  but  I  robbed  you 
just  the  same.  I  can't  go  back  to  living  on  work 
men.  If  you're  all  agreed,  we'll  buy  the  old  place 
together  as  community  property.  We'll  turn  the 
cabins  on  the  hill  into  shops.  My  wife  and  I  will 
move  over  to  the  brick  house,  but  it  will  belong  to 
you  as  much  as  it  does  to  us.  Everything  will  be 
incorporated  under  the  name  of  the  Republic,  a  real 
democracy — not  a  warmed-over  aristocracy  with 
money  as  king.  We  shall  all  be  citizens  of  the 
Republic  if  you  like,  but  I'll  not  coerce  any  of  you 
to  join  us.  You  may  take  your  choice,"  he  said, 
including  both  Mrs.  Brewster  and  Esther,  "between 
citizenship  in  the  Republic  and  having  your  share 
of  the  money  and  working  for  wages." 

Aunty  Brewster  shook  her  head  as  if  this  plan  of 
Robert's  were  a  new  kind  of  whiskey,  but  Esther 
lifted  to  him  a  charming  smile  as  she  said,  "It's 
splendid.  I  understand  your  idea  now.  You're 
trying  to  make  life  as  it  should  be.  I  want  to  be  a 
citizen  of  the  Republic." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  he  said,  clasping  her  hand 
gratefully.  "  One  of  the  cabins  shall  be  yours.  When 
the  orchards  and  the  lands  are  properly  cared  for, 
your  living  will  cost  you  nothing.  In  a  world  of 
abundance  no  one  should  worry  about  the  future." 


276  ESTHER  DAMON 

"It's  a  crack-brained  scheme,  Bobby,"  offered 
Mrs.  Brewster.  "I  did  think  you  was  getting  horse- 
sense,  but  there  ain't  much  horse-sense  outside  of 
Massachusetts.  If  you're  bent  on  giving  away  the 
money  you  honestly  made  out  of  carpets  and  furni 
ture,  I  guess  I  might  as  well  have  my  share  of  the — 
what  do  you  call  it?" 

"The  Republic,"  he  answered. 

"Republic  sounds  all  right,"  returned  the  widow, 
"  but  I  don't  want  none  of  your  democracies.  Demo 
crats  are  all  copperheads.  What  does  Alice  say  to 
this  notion  of  yours?" 

"Alice!"  he  exclaimed.  He  and  she  lived  in 
countries  so  alien  in  thought  that  he  sometimes  for 
got  she  was  his  wife.  "Oh,  I  haven't  told  her." 

While  Robert  worked  that  morning  it  frequently 
occurred  to  him  that  he  dreaded  telling  Alice  about 
the  Republic.  Since  his  domestic  life  turned  a 
somersault,  by  skilled  piloting  he  had  avoided  the 
black  rock  of  dissension  toward  which  they  seemed 
always  to  drift.  As  he  joined  her  at  the  mid-day 
meal  he  wished  the  hour  were  over.  He  began  disclos 
ing  his  plans  by  saying  that  he  had  purchased  the  old 
home,  and  they  would  return  there  within  a  week. 

"You  are  queer,  Robert,  but  you  are  smart," 
Alice  said,  for  the  first  time  in  years  giving  him 
her  full  approval.  "I'll  be  so  glad  to  leave  the 
cabin.  You  don't  know  what  I've  suffered  here." 

"I'm  sorry.  I've  been  very  happy,"  he  returned. 
"I  shall  regret  leaving.  This  house  has  been  my 
own  work,  and  I've  enjoyed  it  immensely.  I'd  like 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         277 

to  remain  in  the  cabin  if  it  weren't  so  well  suited  to 
being  a  shop." 

"How  funny  you  are,  Robert."  Alice's  manner 
showed  indulgence  for  the  eccentricities  of  success. 
"I've  higher  ideas  than  yours.  I'm  never  satisfied 
unless  I'm  at  the  very  top.  I'll  be  so  glad  to  get 
away.  I  intend  giving  a  church  social  as  soon  as  I 
get  into  the  house.  You  must  take  off  those  every 
day  clothes  and  come.  You  simply  must,  Robert. 
And  won't  you  try  to  be  polite  to  Brother  Duane? 
You  always  treat  him  as  if  you'd  like  to  run  away 
when  he  calls  here.  If  you'll  only  go  to  church  with 
me  next  Sunday,  I'll  feel  like  holding  up  my  head 
once  more  and  letting  people  know  I'm  a  great 
deal  more  than  those  who've  been  feeling  sorry  for 
me  because  I  live  in  a  log  house." 

He  listened  as  if  she  were  a  child  prattling  of 
games.  "Enjoy  your  social,  Alice,  but  I'm  afraid 
you  can't  count  on  me.  What  you  make  a  god  is 
my  devil.  I  shall  be  too  busy  to  go.  And  please 
don't  ask  me  to  listen  to  the  Baptist  minister.  I 
want  to  read  and  study  Sundays  instead  of  going  to 
church.  Why  bother  about  conventional  religion? 
If  religion  isn't  a  hinge  for  conduct,  it's  superfluous. 
Christianity  seems  to  me  so  different  from  the  teach 
ings  of  Jesus." 

"I  knew  it,"  Alice  retorted.  "Pa  said  the  day  we 
were  married  you  had  no  stability.  I  never  can  be 
any  one  in  Freedom  so  long  as  people  say  you  are 
an  infidel,  and  you  never  think  or  do  anything  that 
any  one  else  in  Freedom  does." 


278  ESTHER  DAMON 

Orme  laughed  somewhat  bitterly.  "I  can't  do 
things  or  think  them  or  like  them  because  Freedom 
does.  That's  too  great  a  price  for  being  what  you 
call  'somebody.'  I've  no  ambition,  Alice,  to  be 
anybody  in  Freedom  if  it  means  doing  as  Freedom 
does."  He  added  in  another  key,  "I  wish  I  could 
show  Freedom  how  to  do  better " 

"Much  good  you  can  do  Freedom,"  she  sputtered, 
"when  you  have  around  you  the  lowest  set  in  town." 

"You  don't  realize,  perhaps,  Alice,"  he  inter 
rupted,  setting  down  his  coffee  cup  with  a  frown, 
"that  you're  speaking  of  my  friends." 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  such  company. 
You  don't  care  how  many  snubs  I  get  because  you 
have  old  O'Shea,  the  jail-bird,  as  head  man  in  the 
furniture  shop." 

Orme  shook  his  head  despairingly.  "Will  peo 
ple  never  forget  that?  I  took  O'Shea  and  Mearns 
when  no  one  would  have  them.  We've  stuck  to 
gether,  and  we've  founded  the  Republic." 

"What  is  the  Republic?"  Alice  asked,  as  if  her 
husband  had  led  her  to  the  gate  of  a  mad-house  and 
opened  it. 

"We  are  all  citizens  of  it,  partners — all  of  us  who 
work  in  the  factory.  The  land  and  shops  are  to  be 
owned  by  all,  and  operated  for  all." 

Breakfast  no  longer  had  savor  for  Alice.  She 
moved  her  chair  from  the  table.  "You've  taken  in 
all  the  scum  of  Freedom  as  partners,  Robert?" 
When  there  was  no  denial  she  moaned  angrily,  "I 
knew  I  could  never  be  any  one.  It  seems  to  me," 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL          279 

she  argued,  "you've  been  good  enough  to  these 
people  without  giving  everything  we  have  to  such 
trash." 

He  explained  to  her  in  full  his  plan.  He  refused 
to  coin  into  money  the  youth  and  strength  of  his 
employees,  to  dull  their  minds  and  cast  them  off. 
The  only  way  to  do  away  with  unhappiness  and 
crime  was  by  doing  away  with  poverty  and  furnish 
ing  equal  opportunity.  He  told  her  he  could  not 
play  with  his  belief;  he  must  live  his  ideals. 

Alice  sat  unmoved.  "Of  course  you  have  no 
idea,  Robert,  that  I'm  going  to  give  my  half  of  our 
money  for  any  such  purpose." 

The  dart  struck  home.  With  amusement  she 
recognized  that  he  had  forgotten  she  was  his  legal 
partner.  As  the  fact  pierced  Orme's  mind,  with  it 
came  the  fear  of  a  delay  in  the  formation  of  the 
Republic.  His  disappointment  was  cruel.  If  Alice 
could  have  awaited  Robert's  response  she  would 
have  shown  greater  discretion.  Instead,  her  prompt 
words  were  like  a  neigh  of  battle.  "I'm  the  only 
person  you  don't  seem  to  mind  robbing  and  depriv 
ing  of  a  home." 

Orme  looked  at  his  wife,  lighted  a  cigar,  let  it  go 
out,  rose  and  walked  about  the  room.  "Then,  Alice, 
you  don't  want  to  be  a  citizen  of  the  Republic.  I 
had  assumed  that  you  would.  I  made  a  mistake." 
He  looked  at  her  steadily.  "What  do  you  prefer?" 

Her  response  had  the  lack  of  impulse  of  a  well- 
regulated  cash  register:  "My  half  of  the  money,  if 
you  don't  mind." 


28o  ESTHER  DAMON 

Then  he  laughed.  "Of  course.  I  should  have 
known  that  before."  Again  he  laughed.  "I  was 
foolish  not  to  have  understood  it.  You  shall  have 
every  cent."  His  affability  was  denunciation.  "I 
shall  be  able  now  to  buy  only  part  of  the  land,  but  I 
hope  the  rest  will  come  later.  I'll  try  any  way. 
I'm  sorry  you  don't  like  the  idea.  I  had  hoped  it 
would  interest  you." 

"You  mean  to  tell  me  you're  going  on  with  this 
crazy  plan,  Robert?" 

He  no  longer  laughed.  "Alice,"  he  said  slowly, 
with  insistence  on  each  word,  "you  may  have  half 
the  money  earned  by  these  men.  I  think  it  belongs 
to  them,  but  it  is  yours.  You  may  always  live  in 
the  house  of  the  Republic,  and  of  course  my  share 
of  that  community  property  will  be  yours.  Let's 
settle  it  so  and  not  discuss  it  any  more." 

"I  know  what  pa  will  say  about  this."  Alice's 
citation  of  authorities  in  Freedom  was  always  ex 
asperating.  Ira  Wherritt  in  a  judicial  capacity  was 
too  heavy  a  test  of  Robert's  patience.  "He  always 
said  there  never  was  an  Orme  yet  who  knew  enough 
to  keep  a  penny.  Your  grandfather  emancipated  all 
his  slaves  for  some  wild  idea.  You're  no  business 
man." 

Each  sentence  came  as  a  messenger  of  provoca 
tion.  Orme  was  surprised  at  his  own  moderation. 
"You  surely  don't  want  me  to  be  a  business  man, 
Alice,  if  it  means  preying  on  others.  In  an  advanced 
state  of  civilization  the  business  man  of  to-day  would 
be  as  ashamed  of  his  occupation  as  a  burglar  or 


THE   RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         281 

pickpocket  now  is  of  his.  I'll  not  profit  by  a  sys 
tem  of  robbery  even  though  legalized  and  estab 
lished." 

The  wings  of  Alice's  mind  always  took  a  direct 
flight  to  the  ultimate.  "And  are  you  goose  enough 
to  think  you're  going  to  succeed?" 

"It  depends  upon  what  you  mean  by  success." 

"Do  you  think  it  will  last?" 

"It  doesn't  matter  whether  it  lasts  until  my  death 
and  then  fails,  or  whether  it  breaks  down  even 
within  a  year  or  so.  I'll  offer  what  I  have  in  pro 
test  against  the  accepted  commercial  system.  If  my 
work  gives  a  flash  of  right  impulse  to  some  one  else 
it  will  be  successful.  I  don't  hope  for  much.  Per 
haps  I  shouldn't  expect  greater  success  than  to 
restore  to  each  man  and  woman  in  the  Republic 
their  just  share  of  the  proceeds  of  their  toil." 

"Woman!"  Alice's  surprise  was  too  big  for  her 
vocabulary.  "Woman!"  Now  they  crashed  on  the 
inevitable  rock.  "Oh,  that  is  what  it's  all  about— 
justice  and  ideals  and  that  nonsense.  Why,  they're 
merely  Esther  Damon." 

Alice's  truths  were  like  those  of  a  child,  un- 
draped  and  direct.  She  watched  Orme's  pale  face 
for  signs  of  their  effect.  To  her  intense  scrutiny 
his  dark,  staring  eyes  seemed  to  resemble  those 
of  Esther  Damon.  "You've  been  weak  enough  to 
be  tempted  by  that  woman."  Then  she  summed  it 
up  with  the  opinion,  "Men  are  all  alike." 

A  picture  of  Esther  as  he  had  last  seen  her  rose 
before  Orme's  vision.  "You  quite  misunderstand 


282  ESTHER  DAMON 

Esther  Damon.  You're  judging  meanly.  She's 
been  wretchedly  unhappy  and  unfortunate ;  but  she's 
not  base.  If  I  insisted  on  kindness  being  shown 
her,  or  over-urged  her  cause  it  was  because  others 
showed  so  little  pity.  It  remained  to  me.  How 
could  I  help  it?"  he  continued,  with  a  calmness  he 
did  not  feel.  "She's  the  best  weaver  in  the  Republic. 
She  has  created  several  new  designs.  Why  should 
I  discriminate  against  Esther  Damon?" 

Alice  received  the  name  as  a  symbol  of  insult. 
"I'd  like  to  know,  Robert  Orme,"  she  demanded, 
with  such  rapidity  that  her  words  sounded  like  the 
clicking  of  a  telegraph  instrument,  "if  you  have  any 
morals  at  all,  or  if  you  think  I  have  any  ?  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  if  that  woman  takes  it  into  her 
head  to  come  into  my  house  she  may?  Is  that 
what  you  do  in  your  Republic?" 

"Why  not?"  he  replied,  now  more  surely  master 
of  his  feelings.  "The  house  belongs  to  the  Republic, 
and  she'll  be  a  citizen  of  it." 

"I'd  like  to  see  her  try  to  enter  it.  Mrs.  Brewster 
shouldn't  have  taken  her  in  at  all." 

"Don't  blame  Aunty  Brewster.  I  asked  Aunty  to 
give  her  a  home."  Now  that  Orme  had  begun,  he 
was  determined  Alice  should  realize  the  entire  ex 
tent  of  his  responsibility.  "Esther  Damon  won't 
trouble  you.  She'll  live  on  this  side  of  the  road, 
where  all  the  weavers  are  to  be." 

Alice  held  her  ground.  "  I  stand  or  fall  right  here. 
Esther  Damon  shall  never  live  in  any  of  these  cabins 
or  have  a  room  here." 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         283 

"Don't  say  that,  Alice.  Why  be  so  hard  on  her? 
She's  a  poor  victim." 

"Poor  victim!  I  suppose  if  I  had  run  away  and 
disgraced  myself  and  my  family,  I'd  be  a  poor, 
lovely  victim.  Because  I'm  decent,  nobody  has  any 
interest  in  me." 

"You  would  be  an  entirely  different  person  to  do 
such  a  thing,"  Robert  argued  as  he  approached  his 
wife.  "And  because  you  are  so  different,  can't  you 
show  Esther  Damon  a  little  kindness?  Why  not 
make  her  feel  now  and  then  that  she  isn't  entirely 
friendless?  I  imagine  she  has  a  great  many  sad 
days." 

"She  should  have  thought  of  them  before.  She 
can't  expect  good  women  to  know  her.  The  churches 
have  done  their  duty  by  her — they  have  prayed  for 
her." 

Orme  frowned.  "Yes,  they  pray  for  her,  I  sup 
pose  .  But  who  will  walk  down  town  with  her  ?  Jesus' 
religion  ought  to  be  introduced  into  the  churches. 
He  would  have  taken  her  into  His  home." 

There  was  an  eloquent  silence  which  Alice  broke 
as  she  said  impressively,  "There's  a  very  big  differ 
ence  between  you  and  Jesus,  Robert." 

"But  how,"  Orme  asked,  "can  the  good  help  the 
bad  by  living  only  with  the  good  ?  Nothing  cures 
hearts  except  other  warm  hearts  laid  upon  them." 

"You  wouldn't  have  me  know  Esther  Damon?" 
To  the  wife  the  possibility  was  grotesque. 

"Perhaps  you  know  worse  women " 

"Worse?" 


284  ESTHER  DAMON 

"Yes,  women  who  He  about  one  another,  perjure 
and  prostitute  themselves  to  marry  for  a  home  or 
money,  and  then  cheat  their  husbands  of  affection 
and  consideration.  They  have  marriage  certificates, 
but  they  are  the  bad  characters  to  avoid.  If  you 
say  to  women  who  criticise  you  for  knowing  Esther 
Damon  that  she  broke  only  one  commandment  and 
pays  for  it  every  day,  while  most  of  them  have 
broken  several  and  pay  nothing  because  they  are 
protected  by  the  marriage  trust,  you'll  do  some  good. 
You'll  be  a  missionary,  teaching  women  a  little 
common  honor  in  their  marital  relations." 

Every  word  of  Orme's  indignation  Alice  knew 
was  levelled  at  her.  "I  admit  I'm  a  low  person," 
she  mockingly  stipulated,  "but  I'm  not  quite  low 
enough  to  have  that  creature  in  the  house." 

"Her  work  has  given  her  the  right  here,"  he  an 
swered  quietly,  as  if  fearing  his  own  utterance. 

"Even  if  it  has,  if  she  ever  sets  foot  in  this  cabin 
to  live,  you  lose  me,  and  you  lose  the  respect  of 
every  one  in  Freedom." 

Orme  raised  his  voice  as  he  leaned  forward  in  his 
chair.  "If  with  a  clear  understanding  of  what  it 
means,  Alice,  you  demand  this  injustice  of  me — an 
injustice  that  would  make  me  contemptible,  you  lose 
me;  this  time  for  the  rest  of  our  lives.  I  believe  I 
lost  you  long  ago.  I'm  not  sure  you  ever  belonged 
to  me.  Did  you?  Or  did  you  marry  that  house 
over  there?  Can  you  honestly  say  I  ever  counted 
so  much  as  that  pile  of  bricks?  Would  you  have 
married  me  if  I  had  been  without  it?" 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A   SOUL          285 

It  was  the  least  of  Alice  Orme's  ambition  to  be 
mistaken  for  a  sentimentalist.  To  concede  that  her 
husband  outweighed  his  possessions  would  have 
been  a  confession  to  a  lack  of  balanced  judgment. 
Her  reply  to  Robert's  question  was  to  pelt  him  with 
a  few  last  illuminating  phrases  as  she  marched 
toward  the  door:  "I'll  not  ask  you  to  be  unjust  to 
Esther  Damon.  Stay  here  on  this  side  of  the  road 
where  she's  to  be.  I'll  live  in  the  other  house.  I'm 
going  over  there,  but  don't  imagine  that  even  if  I 
don't  read  books,  I  don't  know  what  the  real  matter 
is  with  you.  You  don't  realize  it,  but  I  do  think 
occasionally.  Sometimes  when  you've  sat  looking 
as  if  you'd  lost  every  friend  and  I  wanted  to  have 
fun  I  mentioned  her  name.  That  was  enough. 
You  talked  and  talked  as  if  you  were  speaking  about 
an  angel.  I've  played  the  joke  on  you  a  dozen 
times  and  watched  you  be  a  donkey.  You  may  be 
deceiving  yourself;  you're  not  deceiving  me.  .  .  . 
You're  in  love  with  her.  That's  all.  That's  your 
Republic." 

Alice  peered  into  Robert's  face  to  observe  the 
effect  of  her  words,  to  see  them  work  like  deadly 
poison  in  his  mind.  However,  few  symptoms  of 
his  malady  were  revealed.  He  walked  across  the 
room,  then  turned  and  looked  at  her  as  at  one  who 
unknowing  plays  with  grave,  high  words.  He 
waited  for  her  to  go  on,  as  she  did:  "But  you  won't 
call  it  love — oh,  no!  You'll  have  some  fine,  grand 
name  for  it.  It  would  be  friendship,  soul-harmony, 
affinity,  even  if  you  were  Brigham  Young.  You'll 


286  ESTHER  DAMON 

never  recognize  it  for  what  it  is."  He  stared  at  her 
blankly.  "Don't  you  know  it  yet?"  She  laughed 
furiously.  "I'll  prove  it  to  you."  She  went  to  the 
chimney-piece,  took  up  the  little  picture  made  by 
Esther  Damon.  "Look  at  this!  It's  the  only  pict 
ure  you  would  have  in  the  house,  isn't  it?" 

He  did  not  answer.  "You  thought  I  didn't  know 
where  it  came  from.  I  heard  Mrs.  Damon  say 
Esther  made  it.  You  kept  it  there  where  you  could 
always  look  at  it.  Well,  you'll  never  look  at  it 
again." 

Robert  perceived  her  intention  before  she  began 
rending  the  cardboard.  "Put  it  down,"  he  cried, 
as  he  sprang  forward  and  seized  her  wrists. 

It  was  too  late.  The  picture  was  torn  into  pieces. 
"You're  hurting  my  wrists,"  she  said.  He  released 
her,  and  she  threw  the  fragments  of  cardboard  into 
his  white  face.  "Now  you  know." 

Yes,  his  wife  had  made  all  clear  to  him.  Now  he 
knew.  He  tried  no  longer  to  evade  the  truth.  He 
wished  to  proclaim  it  to  Alice  and  the  world.  From 
the  first  day  when  Esther  Damon's  face  had  stirred 
him  to  better  endeavor  he  had  loved  her.  Her 
struggles,  her  suffering,  her  persecution,  her  cour 
age,  every  hour  of  her  presence  had  endeared  her 
to  him  until  his  love  was  his  ruler.  He  stooped  to 
pick  up  the  bits  of  the  cardboard  which  had  always 
seemed  a  part  of  her.  His  fingers  trembled.  How 
dared  Alice  destroy  this  symbol  of  his  love! 

"You  hate  me  now,"  she  said,  alarmed  that  she 
had  gone  so  far. 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         287 

"Go  back  to  your  father's  home,  and  never  re 
turn  here,"  he  answered,  no  longer  endeavoring  to  be 
calm. 

"I'll  not,"  she  answered.  "You  only  want  me 
to  leave  so  you  can  see  Esther  Damon." 

She  went  no  farther.  His  fearful  anger  silenced  her. 
"Don't  mention  Esther  Damon's  name.  There  is 
no  house  large  enough  for  you  and  me  to  live  in 
again." 

Alice  looked  at  him  a  long  time.  She  had  never 
seen  him  before  in  this  state  of  mind.  She  recog 
nized  the  finality  of  his  fury.  She  crossed  the  room 
in  leave-taking  and  touched  the  lapel  of  her  hus 
band's  coat.  Orme  shuddered.  He  feared  some 
word  of  apology  from  her.  "I'm  going  to  my 
father,  "she  said,  "but don't  forget  you're  my  husband. 
You  belong  to  me.  You  shall  always  belong  to  me. 
I'll  live  just  to  keep  you  from  her." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  return  of  Alice  Orme  to  her  father's  house 
surprised  no  one.  Freedom  had  always  wondered 
how  long  the  apparent  domestic  happiness  of  the 
Ormes  would  last.  But  the  Four  Corners  were 
puzzled  by  the  Republic.  Moderate  greed  was  their 
symbol  of  respectability.  A  bank  account  was  a 
bank  account.  Dividing  money  with  workmen  looked 
like  lunacy.  Robert's  deficiency  in  property  sense 
indicated  his  loose  moral  fibre.  "What  could  be  the 
matter  with  him?"  the  Four  Corners  asked  one 
another. 

"Whiskey,  of  course,"  answered  Job  Spear. 

"Women!"  explained  Ira  Wherritt  with  a  wink. 
In  order  not  to  lose  an  entire  half  day's  work,  the 
old  man  rose  early  one  morning,  and  drove  to  Ripon 
to  request  a  lawyer  to  have  a  custodian  appointed  to 
take  charge  of  Orme's  small  fortune.  Wherritt's 
visit  was  fruitless.  He  returned  to  Freedom  lament 
ing  that  the  sacredness  of  dollars  was  not  sufficiently 
safeguarded  by  the  law.  He  guessed  anarchists 
would  be  running  things  pretty  soon. 

For  many  months  Robert's  love  for  Esther  had 
been  a  hidden  dream  of  his  soul.  After  Alice  re 
vealed  to  him  its  power,  at  no  moment  was  he  en 
tirely  free  from  longing  for  the  girl.  As  his  love 

288 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         289 

increased  he  sometimes  thought  he  could  see  it 
written  in  his  face.  He  dreaded  lest  others  should 
read  it  there.  Away  from  Esther  he  idealized  her; 
in  her  presence  he  feared  lest  he  should  betray  him 
self.  At  times  he  thought  he  would  try  to  forget 
her.  Then  he  would  not  if  he  could ;  his  love  made 
him  too  unutterably  happy.  But  when  he  pre 
figured  the  years  of  silence  he  must  pass  without 
her,  life  became  unendurable.  For  the  first  time 
he  hesitated  before  public  opinion.  He  seldom 
went  to  Mrs.  Brewster's  house;  he  wished  to  shield 
Esther.  He  could  not  give  her  as  food  to  the 
gossips. 

But  in  spite  of  him  the  gossips  were  busy.  Alice 
had  told.  Mrs.  Brewster  forbade  Esther  to  go  to 
live  in  the  cabin  on  the  hill,  offering  as  a  reason 
that  she  was  a  regular  old  softy  about  Dion.  The 
widow  declared  she  would  mope  herself  to  death 
without  him.  Esther  promised  to  remain  with 
Aunty  Brewster,  but  she  suspected  that  the  old  lady's 
brusque,  affectionate  concern  screened  a  pretext. 
She  wondered  why  Orme  never  lingered  to  chat, 
why  he  so  often  came  when  she  was  absent.  Per 
haps  he  was  sad  because  he  had  separated  from  his 
wife.  She  found  herself  glad  that  he  was  alone; 
it  was  as  he  lived  when  they  first  met.  Yet  she  re 
proached  herself  for  pleasure  in  anything  that  caused 
him  pain.  By  a  great  tug  at  the  will  she  tried  to 
say  she  regretted  the  change  in  his  life. 

One  afternoon  in  the  late  autumn  she  went  on  an 
errand  for  Mrs.  Brewster.  Returning  she  met  Orme 


290  ESTHER  DAMON 

at  the  gate.  "Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  her  eyelids  trem 
bling  as  she  gave  him  her  hand.  His  face  was  graver 
than  usual.  Evidently  his  wife's  departure  had 
meant  much  to  him.  "You  never  come  to  see 
us  any  more,"  she  said. 

"We've  been  building  new  cabins,  moving  into 
the  old  building,"  he  replied,  "but  I  was  just  coming 
to  see  you  now.  I'm  tired  of  being  in  the  factory. 
Let's  walk  under  the  trees." 

They  stepped  into  the  orchard.  Her  narrow, 
deep  life  widened.  She  always  seemed  a  larger 
being  when  near  him.  For  her  walking  by  his 
side  was  an  adventure.  Youth  returned  again  and 
she  knew  she  was  young.  She  rushed  forward 
breathlessly,  following  no  path  through  the  valley, 
living  thoughtlessly,  intensely,  with  the  great  free 
things  of  nature.  He  could  hardly  keep  pace  with 
her.  "How  fast  you  walk,"  he  said,  fearing  some 
subtle  betrayal  of  his  love  even  in  this  commonplace 
remark.  His  hammering  heart  made  him  realize 
that  their  separation  had  been  over-long.  Esther 
had  been  too  frequently  in  his  thoughts  for  him  to 
be  natural  when  with  her,  but  he  struggled  on, 
"This  is  the  first  time  you  have  walked  through  the 
orchards  of  our  Republic  .  .  .  yours  and  mine  .  .  . 
and  the  others."  Despite  himself  a  new  cadence 
came  into  his  tone. 

"Not  mine,"  she  corrected.  "I've  been  wanting 
to  tell  you  I  can't  accept  your  kindness.  I'll  live 
at  Aunty  Brewster's.  I'd  rather  work  as  a  wage- 


earner." 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         291 

He  brushed  aside  her  sadly  embroidered  little  lie. 
"I'll  not  listen  to  your  desertion.  You've  always 
been  frank  with  me  before.  Life  is  too  short  for 
make-believe  between  us." 

"I  know,"  she  promptly  said.  When  Esther  was 
with  him  she  was  more  charming,  more  beautiful, 
more  entirely  herself.  Then  her  entire  being  seemed 
illumined.  "  I  don't  understand  why  I  hesitate  .  .  . 
or  what  it  is  I  don't  say  .  .  .  but  I  oughtn't  to  go. 
I'm  not  wanted  in  the  Republic." 

Delaying  their  steps,  they  lingered  face  to  face. 
"Who  is  wanted  if  you  are  not?"  he  quietly  asked. 

"Every  one,  I  think.  .  .  .  You've  been  embar 
rassed  by  me,  you've  had  trouble  on  account  of 
me.  ...  I  can't  allow  that.  You  must  give  me 
up."  She  did  not  notice  his  quick  breathing  which 
spoke  louder  than  any  syllable  could  speak.  "When 
a  woman  goes  .  .  .  out  of  the  beaten  track,  that's 
the  kindest  thing  for  her.  I'm  Dion's  mother,  noth 
ing  more."  She  raised  her  head  aloft.  "That's 
enough  for  any  one.  Let  me  work  in  the  old  way. 
There's  no  place  for  me  in  the  Republic." 

A  torrent  seemed  shut  in  Robert's  heart  as  in  the 
evening  quiet  he  replied.  "Then  there's  no  place 
in  the  Republic  for  me,  Esther." 

"You  mustn't  have  discord  because  of  me.  I  shall 
be  unhappy  if  you  suffer  on  my  account." 

He  felt  himself  grow  faint.  "You  are  already  one 
of  us  as  long  as  the  Republic  lasts.  Keeping  you 
with  us  is  ...  selfishness." 

She  shook  her  head.    "No,  you're  trying  to  make 


292  ESTHER  DAMON 

it  easy  for  me.  You're  so  kind  you  don't  want  to 
let  me  know  how  I've  worried  you.  For  two  weeks 
I've  seen  you  always  walking  alone  up  to  the  top 
of  that  high  hill  before  us  ...  I  understand." 

Orme  wondered  how  much  longer  he  could  hold 
out.  "Not  everything,  Esther.  We  all  have  our 
life  we  can't  explain."  She  felt  he  was  speaking  of 
his  wife.  "You  recall  the  Hill  of  Difficulty  in  Pil 
grim's  Progress.  Lions  growl  at  the  top  to  try 
one's  faith.  At  the  left  and  right  are  danger  and 
destruction.  We  can't  avoid  the  Hill  of  Difficulty. 
I  like  to  go  straight  to  the  top  ...  I  need  to  meet 
the  lions."  His  eyes  were  resting  on  the  hill-crest 
where  once  had  stood  an  Indian  fort.  After  a  long 
pause  he  turned  to  her  quickly.  "Will  you  come 
with  me  now  to  the  top,  Esther?" 

His  voice  startled  her.  She  turned  away.  In  the 
inflection  of  this  simple  request  she  caught  some 
thing  which  was  like  "I  love  you.  Do  you  love 
me?"  There  were  blind  and  fatal  forces  in  her. 
What  if  there  existed  the  like  in  him?  What  if 
their  friendship  were  a  high,  exalted  pretext?  "I 
must  go  back,"  she  said  in  alarm. 

"Don't,"  he  pleaded,  shaken  by  desire  to  tell  her 
all  the  ache  and  longing  in  his  heart. 

"Aunty  Brewster  will  wonder  where  I've  gone 
.  .  .  Dion  is  waiting  for  me."  She  went  toward 
the  house,  but  turned  her  head  to  say  "  Good-night." 
When  she  saw  the  pain  in  his  eyes  she  felt  certain 
she  had  misjudged  him.  Of  course  the  Hill  of 
Difficulty  was  his  wife. 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         293 

"I'm  very  lonely,"  he  called  after  her.  Again 
she  caught  a  new  rhythm  in  his  tone,  again  she 
reproached  herself  for  doubting  him.  Her  own  in 
satiable  need  of  idolatries  found  strange  cadences 
in  every  voice. 

The  winter  months  convinced  Esther  that  Robert 
had  given  himself  to  regret  over  losing  Alice.  She 
seldom  saw  him  alone.  When  he  came  to  Mrs. 
Brewster's  he  was  ill  at  ease  and  restrained,  and 
he  hurried  away.  Even  Aunty  Brewster  noticed. 
Once  the  widow  reproached  him.  "Fools  will  be 
fools.  What  are  you  worrying  yourself  to  death 
for  over  that  Alice?"  Esther  grew  to  feel  estranged 
from  him,  and  avoided  the  community  house,  which 
was  the  old  Orme  residence.  The  previous  winter 
she  had  lived  with  Robert's  spirit  through  his  books; 
but  when  he  seemed  so  changed,  she  had  little 
desire  to  read.  Her  finer  intellectual  life  was  trans 
muted  into  devotion  to  her  son.  Motherhood  became 
her  vocation. 

And  the  Sabbath  bells  seemed  always  to  call  her 
to  worship.  At  times  she  wished  to  go.  Separated 
from  Orme  she  felt  a  renewal  of  religious  fervor. 
She  prayed  for  his  happiness;  she  prayed  that  he 
would  come  back  and  give  her  of  his  strength.  She 
needed  him.  His  absence  always  reminded  her 
that  he  was  not  present. 

One  melting  afternoon  in  March,  after  an  hour 
out  of  doors,  Esther  found  Dion  ill.  She  sat  hold 
ing  him  by  the  sitting-room  coal  stove  all  night, 


294  ESTHER  DAMON 

watching  him  anxiously.  At  daybreak  his  face  took 
on  a  great  and  sudden  beauty.  The  child  strangled 
to  death  in  her  arms.  Dion  had  always  seemed  to 
his  mother  half  divine.  She  could  not  believe  he 
was  gone.  She  clung  to  his  body  as  if  to  protect 
it  from  an  invisible  monster  threatening  to  absorb 
it.  His  flesh  was  still  hers.  He  seemed  struggling 
to  return  to  her. 

"I  once  lived  for  you,  Dion,"  she  whispered. 
"Now  come  back  to  me  ...  I  can't  go  on  alone. 
I  can't.  Don't  leave  me,  my  baby!" 

Esther  stirred  the  fire,  wrapped  Dion  in  a  heavy 
quilt,  trying  to  keep  the  heat  in  his  body;  but  it  grew 
chill  and  rigid.  Half  distraught  she  opened  her 
dress,  pressed  his  face  against  her  breast,  held  her 
lips  to  his.  As  she  huddled  over  the  baby  she  grew 
cold  and  shivered.  When  Mrs.  Brewster  took  the 
child  from  her,  the  universe  seemed  to  crash  upon 
the  mother.  With  blank,  blurred  eyes  she  stared 
at  the  wall  and  stared  and  stared  while  the  clock 
ticked  the  grimmest  passages  of  Scripture  into  her 
mind.  "The  children  of  adulterers  shall  not  come 
to  maturity  ...  if  they  live  long  they  shall  be  held 
of  no  account."  She  could  feel  the  syllables  tramp 
through  her  head.  Back  and  forth  they  marched. 
She  would  have  struck  them  out  of  her  consciousness, 
but  the  clock  ticked  them  back  again.  She  went 
into  her  room  for  escape. 

She  sank  to  the  bed,  flung  out  her  arms  and  closed 
them  on  a  great  aching  void.  "Jesus,  help  me," 
she  prayed.  "I  can't  give  my  baby  up."  She 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         295 

sought  to  feel  a  response  from  the  Infinite.  None 
came.  Where  was  the  mysterious,  far-away  Master  ? 
Where  His  promises?  If  only  He  would  tell  her 
whether  Heaven  was  real,  whether  God  was  real. 
With  merciless  force  the  thought  crushed  her  that 
she  was  God-estranged.  But  her  sensibilities  had 
been  so  deadened  by  pain  that  she  could  suffer  no 
more.  Exhausted  by  grief  and  lack  of  rest  she  slept. 

When  Esther  woke  she  felt  the  warmth  of  the 
blankets  with  which  Aunty  Brewster  had  covered 
her.  It  was  delightful  to  live.  Then  grief  rushed 
over  her.  She  could  not  endure  the  darkness  of  the 
room.  She  could  endure  no  place  where  Dion  was 
not.  Only  one  more  day  would  her  son  be  hers. 
She  must  go  to  him.  Perhaps  she  had  only  dreamed. 
Perhaps  he  was  not  dead.  Perhaps  he  would  open 
his  eyes  when  she  touched  him.  Throwing  a  shawl 
over  her  shoulders,  she  passed  through  the  sitting- 
room  where  a  fire  always  blazed  in  winter,  and  en 
tered  the  parlor,  which  had  the  odor  of  apartments 
seldom  opened.  Hyacinths  were  in  the  air.  On 
some  chairs  before  a  low  melodeon  near  the  door 
was  Dion  with  pots  of  blooming  calla  lilies  at  his 
feet  and  a  spray  of  hyacinths  in  his  hand.  She 
gazed  at  the  lovely  infant  smile;  at  the  white,  wavy, 
silken  head  covered  with  a  mysterious,  impenetrable 
mask.  She  had  not  dreamed.  He  was  dead.  She 
knelt  by  his  side  and  her  lips  moved  in  a  last  sound 
less  appeal  to  be  at  one  with  him. 

Even  in  her  sorrow  she  wondered  who  had  loved 
Dion  enough  to  bring  the  flowers.  She  was  sure 


296  ESTHER  DAMON 

Lucy  had  come  during  the  day;  but  the  Yateses 
possessed  no  such  blossoms.  Only  Robert  did. 
Turning  her  head  she  saw  what  in  the  dim  light 
had  escaped  her.  Orme  had  come  to  watch,  but 
he  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  couch.  When  did  he 
ever  fail  her?  To  others  Dion  had  been  the  incar 
nation  of  evil.  To  him  the  little,  misbegotten  life 
had  every  embodiment  of  good.  She  stepped  softly 
toward  Orme.  When  his  face  was  animated  he 
looked  young,  but  now  in  repose  the  effort  of  his  life 
showed.  There  were  lines  on  either  side  of  his 
mouth  that  might  have  been  worn  by  dropping  tears. 
Asleep  on  the  sofa  he  was  no  longer  her  protector; 
he  seemed  only  a  child.  In  a  wave  of  maternal 
tenderness  she  wished  to  take  him  in  her  arms. 
He  was  the  one  person  living  who  responded  to  her 
entirely  and  she  longed  to  talk  with  him ;  but  know 
ing  he  was  tired  she  did  not  speak.  Her  nearness 
woke  him. 

"Esther!  Esther  dear!"  he  said,  sitting  up 
quickly  and  taking  her  hand.  For  the  moment  he 
forgot  that  death  had  brought  them  together.  There 
was  a  great,  smothered  happiness  in  his  eyes.  A 
dream  of  his  had  been  that  one  day  he  might  wake 
to  find  her  bending  over  him  so. 

"Robert,"  she  said,  for  the  first  time  calling  him 
by  his  Christian  name,  "I'm  so  glad  you  are  here. 
You  can  help  me." 

After  a  pause  he  answered,  "What  can  I  do?" 

"Cure  me." 

Had  Esther's  life  always  been  bright  and  happy 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         297 

she  would  not  have  been  so  dear  to  Orme.  He 
loved  her  more  for  her  disgrace,  her  suffering.  His 
sins  loved  hers.  He  could  not  tell  her  of  his  great 
yearning  to  take  her  away  to  that  emerald  and 
gold  country  pictured  by  her  fancy,  to  fill  her  life 
with  love,  to  heal  her  soul.  But  he  said,  "I  want 
to  be  everything  to  you.  Remember  .  .  .  every 
thing." 

"  Being  with  you  is  so  much,"  she  sighed,  un 
mindful  of  how  the  words  made  his  head  whirl. 
"But  even  you  can't  make  me  forget  I've  lost  Dion." 

She  looked  at  her  son  as  the  first  mother  looked 
at  the  first  babe,  and  all  within  her  suffered.  The 
sight  of  her  grief  racked  Robert.  He  covered  her 
eyes  with  his  hand.  "Don't,"  he  pleaded.  There 
was  a  spell  in  his  touch ;  but  she  walked  toward  the 
body  of  the  child. 

"Can  you  tell  me  that  that  is  all  I  have  of  my 
baby?"  she  burst  out. 

His  inquiry  grappled  with  the  same  mystery. 
"What  does  any  one  know?"  He  led  her  back  to 
the  sofa.  "We  weren't  intended  to  know.  Dion 
experienced  only  happiness.  He  died  in  your  arms 
.  .  .  that  is  immortality." 

Esther  wrung  her  hands  in  suffering.  "I  can't 
forget  I've  lost  him." 

"You  haven't,  dear.  He's  free.  You  wouldn't 
bring  him  back,  would  you  ?  Why,  he's  a  butterfly 
out  of  his  chrysalis." 

"Yes,  I  would,"  she  said,  with  the  fierce  resist 
ance  of  youth.  "I  want  him  just  as  he  was  day 


298  ESTHER  DAMON 

before  yesterday.  I  want  him  to  open  his  eyes  and 
speak  to  me."  She  held  her  handkerchief  over  her 
mouth  to  subdue  her  shuddering.  "But  I  wasn't 
good  enough  to  keep  him.  He  would  be  ashamed  of 
me.  God  took  him  to  punish  me  for  my  sins. 
God  hates  me.  I  feel  it." 

Orme  was  surprised  to  find  that  great  grief  had 
brought  Esther  close  to  belief  in  a  personal  God. 
"No,  no!"  he  argued.  "God  isn't  the  monster  you 
were  taught  to  believe  him  to  be.  He's  more  merci 
ful  than  men.  We  wouldn't  punish  cripples  if  we 
created  them.  Dion  went  because  death  is  inevi 
table.  We  begin  to  die  with  our  first  breath.  If 
death  never  came  we  should  long  for  rest.  He's  only 
a  little  ahead  of  us.  By  and  by,  dear,  your  grief 
will  soften,  .  .  .  you'll  forget." 

She  stared  over  his  shoulder  at  the  white  sheet. 
"How  can  I  forget  after  once  touching  death?" 

"Forgive  me  for  always  judging  for  you,  Esther; 
but  you'll  forget  its  anguish.  Think  of  death  itself. 
Face  it  every  day.  Let  it  be  a  test  of  your  courage." 

She  turned  toward  him.  "Whatever  you  say 
seems  true.  Your  thoughts  are  always  new  to  me. 
I  haven't  many  ideas.  Yours  help  me."  Her  eyes 
looked  into  his  as  if  they  were  the  only  light  remain 
ing  for  her  guidance.  "But  what  can  I  do  now?" 

"There's  always  something.  After  being  so  fine 
you  mustn't  break  down.  There's  work." 

Esther  seized  upon  his  words  with  swift  questions. 
"Work?  Work?"  Then  she  moaned,  "Who  is 
there  for  me  to  work  for,  .  .  .  Robert?" 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         299 

"Freedom.  Help  sow  seeds  of  humanity  in  this 
village.  Then  things  will  be  easier  for  those  who 
come  after  us."  He  took  both  her  hands.  His 
tone  promised  all  one  human  being  can  do  for 
another.  "Work  with  the  rest  of  us  in  the  Re 
public." 

"You  can  do  that,  Robert,  but — "  Her  fingers 
dropped  lifelessly  to  the  patchwork  cushion.  "What 
influence  have  I?  People  despise  me." 

"  I've  been  despised  .  .  .  you  despised  me." 

"No,  no!" 

"Yes,  I  recall  how  frightened  you  were  when  you 
first  saw  me  with  the  Wesley  picture." 

"No,  no!" 

"You  got  over  it,  but  you  were.  That  wasn't  so 
long  ago.  Yet  now  you  tell  me  that  what  I  do 
matters." 

Her  nobly  modelled  head  emphasized  her  words, 
"Ever  and  ever  so  much." 

His  utterance  became  difficult.  "I  appear  always 
to  speak  of  myself,  but  I  don't  see  how  I  can  avoid 
it.  When  I  went  to  your  home  that  day  and  you 
wrote  me  that  you  didn't  think  I  was  very  wicked 
...  I  was.  A  hundred  fiends  within  me  were 
hidden  from  you.  Since  then  every  moment  I  stood 
off  those  devils.  I  have  had  to  fight  an  army,  and 
be  laughed  at  and  lied  about  while  I  fought."  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  given  voice  to  his 
struggles.  Esther  looked  at  him  through  a  blur. 
"Now  it's  easier.  I  was  in  the  depths  myself  that 
night  I  found  you  down  by  the  lake.  I  don't  know 


300  ESTHER  DAMON 

what  would  have  become  of  me  without  you.  Your 
bravery  renewed  mine.  You  see  courageous  acts 
don't  die.  They  inspire  others  and  increase  the 
total  sum  of  courage." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  she  asked,  "Isn't 
that  true  of  wrong-doing  also?  Doesn't  sin  like 
mine  produce  an  endless  chain  of  evil?" 

"I  see  no  sin  in  you,  Esther,"  he  softly  answered. 

Under  the  long,  slow  strokes  of  his  hand  on  her 
hair  Esther's  eyes  grew  drowsy;  nature  asserted  its 
demands  for  repose.  "Has  death  made  all  right, 
Robert?"  she  asked  sleepily. 

"No,  your  life  did.  You  are  a  higher  kind  of 
truth  and  a  braver  kind  of  virtue  than  I've  ever 
known." 

"I  am  so  wicked.  .  .  .  You  make  mistakes  in 
judgment,  Robert,  but  it's  pleasant  to  hear  kind 
words."  Then  she  repeated  in  child-like  gratitude, 
"I  like  to  hear  kind  words."  Reverting  to  her  son, 
she  said,  "To-morrow  they're  going  to  take  Dion 
away  .  .  .  Will  you  find  a  place  for  hinr,  Robert? 
Not  where  the  others  are,  but  somewhere  in  the 
Republic.  Let  no  one  touch  him  but  you.  Per 
haps  some  of  the  citizens  of  the  Republic  will  help 
.  .  .  the  ground  is  frozen  deep.  Will  you  do  that 
for  me?" 

Repose  and  tranquillity  seemed  to  emanate  from 
the  tips  of  his  fingers.  "  Anything  you  wish,  Esther," 
he  answered  in  a  soothing  tone.  "Don't  talk  any 
more.  Rest." 

"I  ask  you  always  to  do  so  much  for  me,  Robert," 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         301 

she  said,  with  half  opened  eyes,  "but  you're  the  only 
one  I  have  .  .  .  you're  my  one  bright  spot." 

"We'll  place  him  on  the  mound  to  the  right  of  the 
Hill  of  Difficulty.  Do  you  recall  it?" 

"Yes,  Robert,  there,"  she  nodded.  With  Orme 
bending  over  her,  death  was  less  death.  Tenderly 
he  placed  Esther's  head  upon  the  pillow  Mrs. 
Brewster  had  given  him  for  the  night;  then  he 
covered  her  with  the  shawl.  While  mother  and 
son  slept,  he  kept  a  soundless  vigil.  So  intense  was 
her  pallor,  and  so  still  was  she  that  one  might  have 
believed  the  mother  to  be  a  beautiful,  antique, 
marble  figure  of  a  woman  stretched  out  on  her  own 
tomb. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

ESTHER  DAMON  passed  through  a  dark  period 
of  revolt  in  which  she  acquainted  herself  with  the 
desperate  side  of  her  nature.  Her  son's  birth 
stirred  in  her  sweetness  and  love ;  his  death  filled  her 
with  gall  and  hatred.  Sometimes  she  carried  in  her 
breast  a  heart  of  stone;  she  cried  out  to  her  Maker 
that  He  was  a  murderer. 

By  slow  degrees  she  emerged  from  this  state  of 
hard  wrath;  but  bereavement  had  paralyzed  her 
capacity  for  free  thought.  Esther's  reason,  so  re 
cently  awakened  by  Orme,  could  not  combat  the 
influence  of  her  father's  instruction.  She  believed 
Dion  had  died  to  teach  her  how  to  live.  Her  spirit 
revived  in  her  determination  to  pass  her  life  as  her 
son's  mother  should.  Her  hope  was  that  one  day 
when  her  purification  should  be  perfected  they  might 
again  be  together.  Faithful  and  brisk  as  were  her 
hands  at  the  loom,  her  existence  now  became  sub 
jective.  She  wove  rainbows.  She  lived  in  the 
precious  illusion  that  her  child  was  struggling  to 
return.  Often  Esther's  consciousness  took  bold 
flight  to  worlds  distant,  distant  as  her  son.  In 
these  large  visions  she  saw  herself  the  first  to  solve 
the  great  mystery.  Mankind  should  at  last  wake 
with  its  eternal  question  answered.  With  shattering 

302 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         303 

intensity  of  soul  throughout  the  long  night  hours 
she  called  to  Dion  as  Mary  Magdalene  might  have 
called  at  the  tomb  of  the  Man  of  Sorrows. 

One  evening,  late,  as  she  was  about  to  extinguish 
the  light,  lamp  still  in  hand,  she  paused  to  listen. 
There  were  footsteps  on  the  board  walk — experi 
mental,  inquisitive  footsteps.  Mrs.  Brewster  had 
gone  to  the  Centennial  Exposition,  and  their  stealthy 
sound  brought  uneasiness.  It  was  too  late  for  Lucy 
to  come.  When  Mrs.  Brewster  was  not  at  home 
Orme  intentionally  remained  away,  and  no  others 
in  Freedom  disturbed  the  quiet  of  the  house.  Now 
came  the  slow,  tentative  tap  of  the  intruder.  Esther 
placed  the  lamp  upon  the  table. 

Before  she  opened  the  door  she  thought  she  had 
broken  with  the  past ;  but  before  her  was  a  survival. 
Anew  it  pressed  against  her  in  hideous  intimacy. 
What  she  had  never  wanted  to  see  again  was  here, 
and  would  remain  so  long  as  the  love  of  Dion  was 
rooted  in  her  being.  Silence  held  both  her  and 
Clancy.  Esther  in  the  inveterate  habit  of  attribut 
ing  to  others  her  own  shades  of  conscience,  inter 
preted  the  motive  for  Harry's  coming.  The  death 
of  his  son  as  an  outcast  had  awakened  some  latent 
fineness  in  his  nature.  New  tones  of  inner  voices 
had  stirred  him  to  remorse.  Yet  reluctantly  she 
bade  him  enter. 

The  width  of  the  room  was  between  them  as  she 
seated  herself  on  the  stool  before  the  loom;  but  she 
longed  to  do  something  violent,  to  thrust  her  hands 
through  the  window  pane  for  air.  The  odious  dead 


304  ESTHER  DAMON 

relation  peered  out  of  his  eyes  as  with  a  fine  display 
of  candor  he  began.  "  Esther,  I  knew  Mrs.  Brewster 
had  gone  away,  and  so  I  came  up  to  tell  you  I  made 
a  mistake.  I  know  it." 

After  all  she  had  misjudged  him.  At  last  they 
had  identity  of  thought,  and  this  for  the  child  who 
was  gone.  She  dropped  a  shuttle  she  had  been 
nervously  fingering,  and  awaited  silently,  gazing  at 
him  with  the  fixedness  of  eyes  of  wax.  "It  wasn't 
my  fault,"  he  blundered  on,  placing  himself  in  a 
chair  nearer  her.  "My  people  talked  me  into  it. 
Maybe  you  don't  believe  that.  I  guess  you  think 
I'm  pretty  bad.  Once  before  I  started  to  explain, 
.  .  .  you  wouldn't  listen." 

There  was  a  renewal  of  the  old  tones  that  made 
her  shiver.  "I  don't  care  to  listen  now.  Explana 
tions  are  too  late." 

"But  I  want  you  to  understand,  Esther.  Don't 
be  cross,"  he  pleaded.  "My  family  were  afraid  I'd 
marry  a  Methodist.  They  always  kept  Stella 
around.  She  did  seem  a  nice,  pretty  girl,  and  she 
was  crazy  about  me."  He  did  not  heed  the  distress 
gathering  in  the  listener's  eyes.  "But  blonde  angels 
are  always  selfish  and  cold-blooded.  Stella  never 
once  thought  about  me." 

"Don't,"  Esther  entreated,  as  his  redoubled 
treachery  defined  itself,  "don't  .  .  .  talk  about  your 
wife." 

"I  must  talk  to  some  one,  Esther." 

Turning  away  her  head  she  picked  up  the  shuttle. 
"Don't  talk  to  me.  .  Be  faithful  to  some  one." 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         305 

He  rose  and  laid  his  arm  on  the  back  of  her  chair. 
Esther's  aspect  quickly  dislodged  it.  To  the  un 
critical  eye  now  he  stood  a  handsome  figure  of  youth. 
"I  am  faithful  to  some  one.  I  know  who.  I've 
had  enough  of  her  and  every  other  woman.  They 
only  make  me  realize  how  much  nicer  you  are. 
She's  gone  home  to  her  folks  in  a  tantrum.  I  hope 
she  stays.  You're  the  one  I  want.  I'm  sorry  I 
ever  left  you.  You  have  real  blood  in  your  veins." 

"No,  no,"  she  cried,  in  fright,  "I'm  not  human 
for  you." 

Unconsciously  she  clutched  the  heavy  shuttle. 
Clancy  took  upon  himself  all  reprobation.  "I  don't 
blame  you  for  being  angry,  Esther.  I  did  behave 
like  a  dog;  but  I  wasn't  so  bad  as  I  seemed.  I 
wouldn't  have  hurt  you  as  I  did  .  .  .  not  for  all 
of  them,  if  you  hadn't  been  so  independent  and 
proud.  I'd  have  seen  them  all  hanged  before  I'd 
have  made  you  suffer  for  me.  It  wasn't  my  fault, 
Esther  ...  I  didn't  know." 

She  stood  up  accusingly.  "Is  this  what  you  have 
to  say?" 

"No,  Esther,"  he  broke  forth,  baffled  in  an 
endeavor  to  seize  her  hand,  "I've  a  lot  more.  Get 
over  being  angry  with  me  and  .  .  .  let's  be  sweet 
hearts  just  as  we  were  before." 

With  a  wild  savage  thrill  like  a  demon  tearing  at 
her  throat,  there  leaped  up  within  Esther  anger  she 
had  never  felt,  and  the  passion  for  revenge  that 
dominates  the  common  being.  She  slipped  from  the 
high  plane  on  which  she  had  held  herself  secure,  and 


306  ESTHER  DAMON 

sank  to  his  level.  To  hate,  to  crush,  to  destroy — a 
hundred  malignant  demons  urged  her  as  she  stood 
impotently  trembling  in  her  majesty  of  hatred. 

"Does  nothing  about  me  tell  you,"  she  sufficiently 
prevailed  over  herself  to  say,  "that  I'm  another 
being?  I  feel  nothing  you  feel.  ...  I  don't  know 
what  you're  talking  about." 

Morally,  Clancy  was  the  aboriginal  man.  To  see 
Esther  thus,  enlivened  in  him  the  full  zest  of  pur 
suing  a  new  intensified  woman.  Now  he  spoke  with 
an  ardor  he  had  not  known  even  when  she  first  fell 
into  his  arms.  "You  imagine  that;  but  people 
don't  change,  Esther."  He  looked  at  her,  his  eyes 
full  of  the  past.  "You  haven't  changed.  You 
can't.  I  know.  .  .  .  We  loved  each  other.  Don't 
you  remember  that  first  day  we  sat  under  the  pine 
tree?  It  rained  everywhere  but  on  us.  For  a 
long  time  we  didn't  say  a  word.  Then  I  bent  over 
and  kissed  your  hair.  When  I  looked  at  you,  you 
seemed  dizzy  ...  I  kissed  you  a  dozen  times. 
We  knew  we  loved  each  other.  I  remember  it  so 
well,  and  every  time  we  met  in  the  forest.  I  always 
had  to  wait  for  you  ...  it  didn't  matter.  I  was  so 
glad  to  see  you  coming  in  the  little  gray  bonnet  you 
used  to  hate.  You  were  so  pretty  and  sweet.  You 
can't  think  about  those  days  and  say  you've  for 
gotten,  can  you?  You  were  my  first  sweetheart 
and  I  was  yours." 

Clancy  spoke  with  all  the  tenderness  and  charm 
he  had  summoned  in  the  old  time;  but  Esther 
showed  no  response  to  the  recital  of  the  dawn  of 


THE  RESURRECTION  OF  A  SOUL         307 

their  relation,  save  in  her  eyes,  which  widened  as  if 
she  were  re-living  a  hideous  dream.  "It  never 
happened.  .  .  .  Why  do  you  torture  me?  ...  I 
want  to  forget." 

"You  can't,"  his  voice  rang  out  as  he  seized  her 
hand.  "I  won't  let  you.  I'll  make  you  remember. 
Let  me  try." 

Once  these  words  might  have  had  a  meaning 
for  her;  but  now  he  was  on  the  other  side  of  a  wide 
gulf.  There  was  a  frown  on  her  fine  boyish  brow 
as  she  released  herself  from  him.  "I  hate  your 
love  .  .  .  I've  done  with  life  here  .  .  .I'm  perfectly 
content  to  live  with  the  love  of  my  son." 

His  hands  fell  limp.  He  let  all  his  astonishment 
appear.  "Why,  Esther  .  .  .  Esther,  you  wouldn't 
have  that  boy  back  if  you  could?"  Lighting  a 
cigarette  he  shook  his  head  and  mused.  "Women 
are  funny.  I  don't  understand  them.  ...  It  was 
all  for  the  best,  Esther.  Every  one  knew  it.  There 
wasn't  a  person  in  town  that  didn't  breathe  easier 
when  that  baby  died." 

With  the  horrible  possibility  of  murder  in  her 
flaming  eyes,  in  her  heart,  in  her  hands,  in  her  trem 
bling  frame,  Esther  sprang  toward  Clancy.  She 
was  twice  herself  in  strength ;  she  had  the  strength 
of  her  love  for  her  wronged  son.  Her  tense,  quiver 
ing  fingers  clutched  Harry's  throat.  He  staggered 
back  against  the  loom.  With  an  effort  he  freed 
himself  from  her  death-grip  and  thrust  her  from 
him.  Esther  sank  into  a  chair,  a  panting,  tossing 
piece  of  driftwood  of  her  own  inner  storm.  Imme- 


308  ESTHER  DAMON 

diately  Clancy  bent  over  her  in  tenderness.  "I'm 
sorry,  Esther."  Straightening  his  cravat  he  smiled 
as  if  she  were  a  charming  fury.  "I  love  you  like 
that.  It's  the  best  thing  about  you  .  .  .  nothing 
half-way." 

Her  eyes  were  haggard  and  hollow  as  she  raised 
her  head.  She  gazed  at  him  in  a  vain  endeavor  for 
utterance.  When  finally  her  words  came  they 
matched  in  tone  the  ghostly  horror  of  her  face. 
"Go.  Never  speak  to  me  again  .  .  .  never  come 
near  me  again.  .  .  or  there'll  be  an  end  to  us 
both." 


BOOK   V 
LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER 


"...  That  unaccountable  passion,  of  all  things  the  most  mys 
terious,  the  most  terrible  and  the  most  divine,  whereby  bodies  and 
souls  are  drawn  to  one  another  in  defiance  of  all  other  affinities, 
be  they  interests  or  occupations  or  convictions,  by  an  impulse  so 
profound  that  it  seems  to  have  its  source  beyond  the  portals  of  life, 
so  imperative  that  it  overrides  every  other  tie,  so  instinctive  that 
it  sweeps  Reason  like  dust  before  its  onset." — LOWES  DICKINSON. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

WHEN  Esther  first  returned  to  the  loom,  it  was 
solely  because  she  had  to  earn  a  living;  but  as  she 
toiled  day  after  day  the  solace  of  her  necessity  was 
a  new-found  pleasure  in  the  handiwork.  Her  imag 
ination  brightened  as  her  fingers  touched  seductive 
surfaces  of  strands  of  silk  dyed  by  her  for  hangings 
in  the  making.  Exquisite  colors  and  fine  fabrics 
were  for  Esther  neighbors  to  music  and  poetry. 
With  slow  precision  and  loving  care  she  wove  the 
gorgeous-hued  woof,  her  thoughts  intermingled  with 
fancies  concerning  the  far-away  woman  whose  gar 
ment  the  silk  once  had  been.  In  play  Esther  recon 
structed  the  life  of  that  stranger.  She  wondered 
how  she  spoke,  what  she  said,  how  her  existence 
was  passed,  and  if  her  happiness  were  without  bounds. 
The  weaver  christened  the  intense  purple  thread 
"Esther  Damon,"  because  once  her  own  desire  had 
been  to  wear  similar  stuffs.  After  all  her  office  was 
merely  to  create  objects  of  beauty  for  others. 

Once  in  a  rushing  recollection  of  the  transient 
phase  of  her  innocent  little  vanities  and  of  the  scene 
of  their  existence,  the  purple  thread  deepened  into 
black.  Esther  rested  her  head  on  the  loom  and 
gave  way  to  sobs.  Could  she  have  altered  her  life 
she  asked  herself.  No,  her  reason  answered,  she 

3" 


3i2  ESTHER  DAMON 

could  no  more  have  altered  her  course  of  conduct 
than  the  strand  of  silk  could  resist  the  hand  of  the 
dyer;  or  the  purple  thread  withstand  the  quick  toss 
of  her  shuttle.  Her  weakness,  her  strength,  were 
the  woof  pitched  back  and  forth  in  the  loom  of  her 
life. 

When  she  resumed  weaving,  her  eyes  rested 
blankly  on  the  window.  She  saw  Orme  pass  from 
the  buildings  of  the  Republic,  down  through  the 
forests  of  blooming  orchards,  up  to  the  crown  of  the 
Hill  of  Difficulty.  There  was  a  slow  return.  Again 
he  went.  Again  he  doggedly  repeated  his  course. 
While  Esther  watched  him,  her  sense  of  sorrow  for 
herself  was  transformed  into  pity  for  Robert.  She 
became  conscious  of  his  danger.  With  reluctance 
her  hands  beat  down  the  woof.  Her  shuttle  moved 
no  more.  Her  loom  was  motionless.  The  man  be 
fore  her  who  feared  nothing  was  afraid  of  himself. 
He  still  knew  the  throb,  the  fever  of  the  old  vice. 
He  was  torn  by  invisible,  destructive  forces.  She 
recalled  with  what  complete  devotion  his  broad 
shoulders  had  offered  themselves  for  her  burden. 
She  seemed  alien  to  her  friend  since  he  withheld 
from  her  his  own  unhappiness.  Above  all  things 
she  desired  him  to  know  that  he  might  count  on 
equal  loyalty  from  her. 

With  bared  head,  her  long  black  shawl  falling 
from  her  shoulders,  Esther  went  slowly  through  the 
beguiling,  spring  twilight.  The  thought,  the  emo 
tion,  the  discipline  of  the  years  had  informed  both  her 
outer  and  her  inner  life.  As  she  moved  among  the 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER        313 

pinkening  blossoms,  as  she  waited  for  Orme  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  she  showed  rare  perfected  beauty. 
When  he  looked  at  her  he  would  have  prolonged 
the  moment  into  eternity.  He  tried  to  speak  fra 
ternally,  "I'm  so  glad  you're  better,  Esther.  I  knew 
you'd  take  hold  of  yourself.  No  matter  how  high 
my  belief  in  you  is,  you  always  justify  it." 

She  saw  that  he  was  talking  rapidly  in  order  to 
prevent  her  noticing  his  own  restless  eyes  and 
shaking  hands.  Once  Orme  had  thrown  a  strong 
revealing  light  on  the  violence  of  these  convulsions 
of  temptation;  but  this  was  the  first  time  she  had 
seen  them  in  their  throes.  Though  he  manfully 
tried  to  conceal  his  agitation,  Esther  perceived  the 
certainty  of  defeat  that  had  so  pathetically  marked 
him  the  day  long  before  when  they  met  at  the 
tavern.  The  sight  of  him  floundering  in  uncer 
tainty  transmuted  her  own  weakness  into  strength. 
With  a  look  of  concern  she  answered,  "But  you, 
Robert,  .  .  .  you  are  not  better." 

"Never  was  better  in  my  life,"  he  said,  lightly. 
She  felt  that  she  had  endeavored  to  open  a  stranger's 
gate  and  it  had  slammed  in  her  face.  "So  Aunty 
Brewster  returns  from  the  Exposition  to-morrow," 
he  went  on.  "Won't  it  be  amusing  to  hear  her?" 

Esther  would  not  be  deflected  into  irrelevance. 
"Why  didn't  you  come  to  me?"  she  asked  quietly. 
"You  are  always  helping  me.  Won't  you  let  me 
be  to  you  a  little  of  what  you  were  to  me?  Show 
me  I  can  be  your  friend  by  telling  me  all  ... 
everything  you  endure.  I  want  to  remain  with 


314  ESTHER  DAMON 

you  until  your  struggle  is  over.  I  can  give  as  you 
have  given.  Put  me  to  the  test,  Robert  ...  try 
me." 

Her  hand  touched  his  in  a  pledge  of  allegiance. 
Unrebuked  he  placed  her  fingers  underneath  his 
arm.  He  and  she  walked  on  in  peace,  unconscious 
of  the  sounds  coming  from  a  camp-meeting  in  the 
forest  near  the  lake.  "This  is  all  I  ask,"  he  finally 
said.  But  neither  his  voice  nor  her  ears  had  ever 
known  such  tender  cadence. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  to  me,  Robert?" 

"I  couldn't.  You  were  alone.  I  should  only 
have  injured  you." 

That  there  was  one  person  who  would  still  pro 
tect  her,  renewed  Esther's  gratitude;  yet  she  re 
sponded  bitterly,  "What  do  I  matter?" 

His  answer  was  a  look  that  vibrated  new  mean 
ing.  Then  breathless  and  in  silence,  together  they 
mounted  the  steep  sides  of  the  Hill  of  Difficulty.  As 
they  zigzagged  across  its  face,  in  a  pause  during 
which  she  looked  back  to  see  how  far  they  had  come, 
she  said,  "It's  very  hard,  isn't  it,  Robert?" 

His  eyes  ranged  over  the  tree  tops,  pinkish  amber 
with  sunset,  before  he  quietly  answered,  "Very 
hard,  .  .  .  but  it's  life."  Changing  his  tone  he 
subjoined,  "It's  the  first  time  you  ever  climbed  to 
my  hill-top,  isn't  it?" 

"The  very  first." 

When  they  had  rested  for  a  second  he  suggested, 
"Let's  go  on.  It  is  beautiful  up  there.  We  can 
almost  touch  the  clouds  with  our  hands." 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER        315 

Again  she  took  his  arm,  and  while  they  ascended 
to  the  summit  his  hand  clung  to  hers  as  to  some 
thing  with  the  saving  power  of  redemption.  To 
them  looking  down  from  its  crest  the  hill  seemed  a 
gigantic  bouquet  on  the  highest  spray  of  which  they 
perched.  No  further  word  passed  between  them 
until  they  were  seated  on  the  green  velvety  cushion 
of  grass  under  a  tree  stricken  to  the  ground,  but 
with  one  root  in  the  earth,  and  like  a  tenacious  old 
beauty  still  resolute  to  bloom.  Then  Orme  turned 
to  Esther  his  glance  dazzling  with  the  wonderful 
message,  "It  was  easy  to  make  that  hard  climb  with 
you.  ..."  The  words  so  long  clamoring  at  his 
lips  for  utterance  came,  "If  it  might  always  be  with 
you." 

For  Esther  it  was  as  if  a  great  new  planet  sud 
denly  shone  on  her,  and  unable  to  receive  its  bright 
ness,  she  closed  her  eyes.  "Some  things  can't  be, 
Robert."  With  her  son  no  longer  alive  to  screen 
from  her  the  truth,  she  realized  that,  after  remaining 
long  in  hiding,  her  love  had  come  into  the  light. 
It  surrounded  her  on  every  side.  Even  from  the 
chamber  of  the  dead  came  memories  of  Orme's 
voice,  Orme's  touch,  which  lived  again.  She  did 
not  stand  off  from  reality.  She  was  alive  once  more 
to  her  finger  tips.  Now  she  knew  that  death,  like 
everything  else,  had  united  Robert  and  her,  had 
flung  them  together  on  the  edge  of  a  flower-smothered 
precipice.  "Don't  say  any  more,  Robert,  please," 
she  entreated. 

But  circumstances  had  so  shaped  themselves  that 


3i6  ESTHER  DAMON 

Orme's  upbuilded  will  snapped  like  the  dry  branch 
he  was  nervously  breaking.  He  was  swayed  by  a 
mad  master.  "Why  not,  Esther?  Who  has  a  right 
to  stand  between  us?" 

"Don't!"  she  piteously  appealed,  but  he  was  not 
to  be  subdued  by  a  word. 

"Let's  break  from  it  all.  You  saw  just  now 
what  you  do  for  me,  Esther.  Your  touch,  even  your 
word  saves  me.  You  and  I  are  on  the  same  journey 
to  the  same  port — happiness.  .  .  .  Let's  find  it 
together." 

The  truth  of  his  words  throbbed  between  them. 
The  greatest  peril  of  the  man  and  woman  was  their 
sense  of  interwoven  fate.  Deep  voices  admonished 
that  they  were  confronted  with  danger  from  which 
they  should  flee,  but  the  sweetness  of  the  moment 
sapped  Esther's  strength  and  she  could  scarce 
whisper,  "No,  Robert.  .  .  .  Don't  speak." 

Beneath  his  very  eyes  she  was  thinking,  living  rap 
idly.  With  exultation  he  saw  that  a  change  was  tak 
ing  place  in  her  being.  "I  must  .  .  .  I  tried  to  resist 
what  I'm  saying,  Esther,  but  every  day  showed  me 
I  wasn't  living.  Neither  of  us  is.  We  are  buried 
up  to  our  shoulders  with  only  our  minds  free.  We 
abandon  nothing.  The  world  isn't  limited  to  this 
village.  There  are  places  where  you'll  learn  to 
smile."  Both  her  hands  were  in  his  as  he  bent  over 
her  bowed  head.  "Tell  me,  Esther  .  .  .  you  can't 
live  without  me  ...  I  can't  live  without  you." 

Suddenly  she  threw  her  head  backward  like  one 
about  to  swoon.  "I  need  your  love,  Robert  ...  I 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER        317 

need  love,  love,  love.  I'm  famished,  for  love  and 
happiness,  .  .  .  but  it  can't  be.  I  want  to  love  you 
with  purity  and  sublimity  no  one  else  ever  knew. 
Our  love  must  be  different  from  others  as  a  rainbow 
is  from  a  gray  sky.  ...  If  it  can't  be  like  that,  I 
don't  wish  to  love  you  at  all." 

He  did  not  know  it,  but  she  feared  the  wrath  of 
God  which  she  felt  had  always  followed  her  in  love. 

"That's  the  way  it  is,  Esther  .  .  .  different  from 
the  others  as  the  rainbow  from  the  gray  sky.  We'll 
go  away  from  here.  We'll  forget  sorrow.  We'll  lose 
ourselves  in  some  beautiful  solitude.  Our  entire 
existence  will  be  love." 

It  seemed  to  Esther  that  every  emotion  she  had 
felt  was  gathered  in  her  heart.  Her  lips  flowered 
in  a  smile.  Her  countenance  was  transfigured  by  a 
fresh  illusion  of  happiness.  "Do  you  really  think 
so?  Is  it  true?  Will  it  always  be  true!  .  .  .  Tell 
me  again." 

"Always.  I'd  rather  feel  your  pity  than  possess 
the  love  of  all  the  women  in  the  world.  I've  no 
life  but  in  you.  It  has  been  true  from  the  begin 
ning  of  time.  ...  It  will  always  be  true." 

"And  I  must  tell  you,"  she  replied  rapidly,  "I've 
always  belonged  to  you  ever  since  we  spoke  by  the 
lake.  .  .  .  Perhaps  even  earlier  it  began.  I  couldn't 
have  existed  without  you.  All  I  see  or  know  or  feel 
is  you,  Robert.  My  life  wouldn't  have  been  worth 
living  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you.  I  can't  live  without 
you."  Her  head  drooped,  as  though  her  words  were 
Stirling  her.  "I've  denied  my  love  ...  I  closed 
my  eyes  to  it  like  a  coward,  but  I've  put  it  behind 


3i8  ESTHER  DAMON 

me  for  the  last  time.  It  must  be  good.  ...  I  feel 
reborn,  pure,  raised  from  the  dead.  Oh,  my  love, 
my  life  isn't  worth  very  much,  .  .  .  what  there  is  of 
it  is  yours."  Her  lips  pressed  his  hand,  his  coat, 
his  mouth.  "This  is  the  first  time  I  ever  kissed 
any  one,"  she  said. 

Conscious  only  of  their  supreme  moment,  they 
clung  together  as  if  it  must  be  cherished,  prolonged, 
as  if  it  contained  their  whole  existence.  "I've 
ceased  to  live  in  the  flesh,"  she  whispered.  "I  am 
spirit  that  knows  nothing  but  you."  As  she  shivered 
in  his  arms,  her  lips  white  as  the  petals  on  the 
ground,  her  soul  seemed  to  become  her  body  and 
her  body  her  soul.  "You  must  always  be  near  me, 
Robert,"  she  said  in  sudden  terror. 

He  whispered  in  her  ear  all  the  sweet  forbidden 
story  of  his  love  until  she  was  smothered  by  its  beauty; 
until  both  were  intoxicated  by  it  and  each  other;  by 
the  musky  air;  the  witchery  of  twilight;  by  the 
countless  blossoms  turning  their  lips  toward  them. 
There  was  sublime  delight  in  surrendering  to  the 
storm  of  their  love;  in  being  tossed  by  its  billows 
to  mountainous  heights,  even  if  in  the  end  they 
should  be  lost  in  its  depths,  or  find  death  on  its 
rocks. 

Suddenly  Esther  became  aware  that  for  some  time 
she  had  been  dimly  conscious  of  shouts  from  the 
forest  below.  Following  the  sound  with  her  eyes, 
she  saw  lights  flaring  in  the  trees.  "Who  is  it, 
Robert,  down  there?"  she  asked.  He  offered  no 
explanation,  but  there  floated  upward  the  echoes  of 
song.  "Why  it's  a  camp-meeting!"  she  exclaimed. 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING   GREATER        319 

Orme,  his  glance  meditative,  joyless,  watched  her 
as  he  deliberately  put  the  test,  "Yes,  it's  a  Metho 
dist  camp-meeting." 

There  came  the  voice  of  prayer,  and  the  moving, 
loving  force  of  a  hymn.  Esther's  mind  took  a  back 
ward  flight.  The  voice  of  prayer  and  the  hymn 
invoked  the  image  of  parents  and  home.  Robert's 
eyes  rested  on  her  in  alarm.  For  him  there  was 
omen  in  the  falling  blossoms,  in  the  gathering 
clouds,  in  her  gesture,  which  seemed  to  alter  the 
meaning  of  their  relation.  It  was  as  if  evil  entered 
their  embrace,  when  Esther  realized  that  below 
in  the  forest  were  men  and  women  seeking  selfless 
ness,  men  and  women  seeking  a  heroic  reason  for 
living.  The  girl  companioned  them  in  their  strug 
gle.  Once  she,  too,  had  dreamed  of  a  life  of  self- 
sacrifice.  With  shamed  eyes  she  demanded  of  her 
self  what  had  become  of  her  new  morality,  her  new 
purity,  her  new  faith  ?  Where  was  her  lost  dignity  ? 
What  in  her  was  undefiled?  To  what  could  she 
hold  fast?  Then  she  showed  on  what  anvil  the 
iron  of  her  will  had  been  shaped.  She  withdrew 
from  Robert's  arms. 

Orme,  watching  the  mobile  face  he  so  well  knew, 
saw  the  fabric  of  his  happiness  collapse  through  the 
crystallization  of  her  strength.  Insight  came  to 
Esther  from  some  dominating  power  within,  greater 
than  herself,  which  saw  what  she  could  not  see,  knew 
what  she  could  not  know,  made  of  her  intended 
course  a  moral  impossibility,  told  her  that  all  was 
to  end.  Temptation  was  no  more  temptation.  Some 
thing  in  her  did  not  respond.  She  was  no  longer  a 


320  ESTHER  DAMON 

collection  of  impulses.  She  had  become  the  kind 
of  woman  she  was  to  be. 

"Robert,"  she  began,  but  her  voice  broke. 
"Robert  ...  I  lived  for  you.  ...  I  wanted  to  be 
perfect  for  you.  I  love  you,  ...  I  can't  debase 
our  love.  What  are  we  if  we  aren't  strong  enough 
to  give  up  ourselves  for  each  other  ?  .  .  .  How  often 
you've  told  me  to  renounce." 

As  he  saw  the  flowering  of  the  seed  dropped  by 
him  Orme  went  from  his  best  to  his  worst.  His 
words  turned  traitors.  His  logic  became  the  ser 
vant  of  his  love.  He  repudiated  all  which  had  once 
lain  nearest  to  him.  "What  are  philosophy  and 
wisdom,  Esther?  Ashes.  .  .  .  Not  worth  an  hour 
of  life.  We  shouldn't  strain  and  distort  nature  in 
a  struggle  after  the  ideal.  We  weren't  intended  to 
give  up  so  much.  .  .  .  Who  cares  if  we  renounce? 
I've  denied  myself  until  I  feel  like  a  monk  in  a 
cramped  cell,  eyes  on  the  ground,  avoiding  tempta 
tion.  I've  done  with  it  all.  I  want  to  stretch  out 
my  body  and  see  the  stars."  In  amazement  she 
looked  at  him  as  he  flung  his  head  backward  in 
the  attitude  of  wanton,  rebellious  youth.  His  voice 
suddenly  softened  as  he  continued,  "And  you,  my 
poor,  dear  Esther,  you've  had  a  life  of  suffering. 
What  has  the  world  for  you  alone?  Sneers,  scoffs, 
hatred.  Will  it  help  either  of  us?  Of  course  not. 
Separated,  we  are  merely  living  obituaries.  Let's 
not  lose  our  chance  of  being  together.  We've  both 
gone  to  the  bottom.  We  know  everything.  We 
belong  together,  Esther  .  .  .  you  and  I." 

Orme  was  confronted  by  a  piteously  wounded, 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER        321 

startled  face.  "Is  this  you,  Robert?  .  .  .  Why, 
you  showed  me  such  fine  things  .  .  .  you  don't 
mean  this,  do  you?"  she  pleaded  pathetically. 
"Don't  mean  it,  Robert.  .  .  .  Let  me  adore  you." 
She  pressed  his  hands  against  her  eyes,  and  after  a 
choked  pause  continued,  "We  can't  have  each  other. 
...  I  don't  expect  kindness  from  the  world.  I 
can't  alter  its  opinions.  It  will  always  be  the  same 
for  me.  I  know  I've  squandered  the  right  to  live 
as  others  live  .  .  .  only  I  don't  want  to  do  any  more 
harm.  ...  I  want  to  save  the  good  in  you." 

"You're  all  the  good  in  me,  Esther." 

"No,  no,  Robert,  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  I'm  the  evil, 
but  I  love  you.  Your  future  is  more  than  mine.  .  .  . 
If  I'm  not  your  friend,  my  love  is  worse  than  hate. 
I  can't  take  your  life  in  my  hands  and  crush  it." 

"You'll  make  my  life,  Esther.  You  can  do  any 
thing  with  it  you  wish." 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Robert,  in  comparison 
with  what  you  can  do  for  yourself?  You  told  me 
that.  Everything  I  know  comes  from  you.  I  was 
a  mere  dwarf  when  we  met,  but  ...  I  try  to  re 
member  what  you  said.  What  can  we  do  for  our 
selves  if  our  souls  accept  a  bribe?  If  we  degrade 
our  love  it  will  die.  ...  It  must  live.  That  will  be 
existence  enough  for  me.  Robert  .  .  .  we're  living 
not  only  for  now,  but  for  other  days." 

"Other  days!"  Orme  burst  forth  with  a  violence 
she  had  never  seen  in  him.  "What  do  I  care  about 
them?  I'm  living  for  this  minute.  Esther,  that  is 
the  only  way  ...  to  live  with  every  fibre  of  our 


322  ESTHER  DAMON 

beings,  even  with  pain,  but  always  with  intensity." 
His  reasoning  became  entirely  passional  as  he  pro 
ceeded,  "There  is  no  absolute  right  or  wrong. 
Every  right  has  been  questioned,  so  has  every  wrong. 
We'll  make  our  own  morality." 

She  touched  his  hair,  looked  into  his  eyes  and 
shook  her  head.  "Right  for  us  must  be  right  for 
every  one.  I'd  gladly  give  you  my  life  ...  if  you 
could  take  it  without  destroying  yours.  .  .  .  You 
can't,  Robert.  You  mean  so  much  to  others.  Think 
of  how  the  citizens  believe  in  you.  The  world  is 
beginning  to  notice  the  Republic.  It  has  just  been 
founded,  but  its  influence  will  go  far.  What  if  at 
the  beginning  .  .  .  the  chief  fails  ?  Be  brave." 

"What  does  it  matter  what  I  am  or  what  I  do,  if  I 
can't  have  you?  You  are  success,  happiness,  glory. 
All  I  can  do  is  yours,  Esther.  I  want  to  lose  every 
thing  for  you  ...  I  give  everything  to  you." 

"You  can  give  me  nothing,  Robert  .  .  .  you  can 
only  destroy  yourself." 

Suddenly  gathering  her  in  his  arms,  he  pleaded, 
"Don't  take  your  love  from  me,  Esther.  Don't 
strike  it  dead.  I  need  it  desperately." 

Once  again  the  sounds  came  from  below.  She 
released  herself  and  sat  gazing  at  the  forest.  With 
out  looking  at  Orme  she  murmured  as  if  to  herself, 
"What  can  our  love  ever  be  but  an  ideal?  It's  too 
beautiful  to  be  experienced.  There  must  be  some 
other  world  than  this  for  our  love,  but  we'll  always 
have  all  there  is  eternal  in  it." 

With  her  words  were  born  Orme's  regret  that  long 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER        323 

before,  while  it  was  easily  within  his  power,  he  had 
not  laid  in  ruins  her  failing  faith.  It  was  on  his 
lips  to  tell  her  that  there  was  no  eternity  save  that 
shared  by  the  earth;  the  belief  of  those  ignorant 
people  shouting  in  the  woods  was  fit  for  the  simple- 
minded  alone.  Yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
violate  the  devotion  which  had  sustained  her;  and 
so  he  said,  "But  if  there  is  no  other  world,  dear.  .  .  . 
Are  you  still  willing  to  risk  it?" 

She  moved  a  little  away  from  him,  "Yes,  .  .  . 
even  if  we  never  meet  again  we  shan't  be  separated. 
We'll  be  together  more  than  if  we  saw  each  other 
daily.  In  the  silence  we'll  know  each  belongs  to 
the  other  until  the  end.  .  .  .  What  more  is  there 
in  life?  Isn't  that  knowledge  the  only  thing  worth 
having?" 

"I  love  you,  Esther,"  was  his  only  defence. 

"Wherever  I  am,  Robert  .  .  .  wherever  you  are 
.  .  .  you'll  always  be  with  me." 

But  she  spoke  as  if  she  were  existing  alone  on  the 
highest  and  most  barren  peak  of  life.  Orme  groped 
toward  her,  blinded  with  anguish.  "Esther  your 
face  seems  veiled.  I  don't  see  you.  It  isn't  dark 
.  .  .  but  it's  darkness  to  me.  Have  you  gone?" 

"No,  I'm  here,"  she  said,  kneeling  beside  him, 
encircling  his  shoulders  with  her  arm. 

"I've  had  only  a  moment  of  you  and  happiness, 
Esther.  .  .  .  Now  you're  both  going  away." 

She  held  her  face  close  to  his.  "No,  I'll  be 
always  with  you.  .  .  .  There'll  never  be  a  shadow 
or  tear  in  our  hearts  .  .  .  only  happiness.  Don't 


324  ESTHER  DAMON 

you  recall  how  those  books  you  used  to  read  from 
said  that  the  slightest  sound  in  space  has  no  end?" 

"Yes,  Esther." 

"Our  words  of  love  to-night  will  reverberate  for 
ever.  .  .  .  They'll  go  side  by  side  through  eternity 
together." 

For  a  moment  she  crouched  in  his  embrace, 
listened  to  his  mad  endearments;  then  she  took  him 
in  her  arms,  pressed  her  lips  to  his  forehead,  his 
cheeks.  When  she  touched  his  misty  eyes  he  cried 
out,  "You're  doing  this  because  you've  already  left 
me,  Esther."  She  pressed  and  clung  to  him  con 
vulsively,  and  his  will  was  blown  about  by  his 
strongest  desire.  "Esther,  you  wanted  me  to  test 
you  ...  to  prove  you.  I  will.  .  .  .  Come  to  hell 
with  me.  I'm  ready  for  any  crime  for  you  or  with 
you.  Your  love  isn't  love  unless  you  are." 

Beautiful  with  terror  she  looked  at  him.  Her 
face  fell  forward  and  rested  on  his  knees.  Orme 
felt  the  throbbing  of  her  heart,  as  though  it  were 
naked.  Between  sobs  she  answered,  "Don't  doubt 
my  love,  Robert.  You  can't,  but  if  you  do  .  .  ." 
In  her  gaze  he  saw  stir  the  depths  of  her  terrible 
temperament.  "  To  prove  myself  .  .  .  I'll  go  to  hell 
with  you." 

His  mind  was  too  keen  not  to  be  accompanied  by 
fine  lucidity  of  conscience.  He  recognized  the  base 
ness  of  the  test  he  had  imposed.  His  own  un worthi 
ness  laid  hold  of  him.  "I  do  believe  you  love  me, 
Esther  ...  I  want  you  to  be  wholly  happy,  without 
a  regret.  Forgive  me  for  being  such  a  brute." 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER        325 

With  a  kind  of  awe  he  followed  her  movement  to 
her  feet.  "  Robert,  don't  speak  of  forgiveness. 
There  can  be  nothing  for  me  to  forgive  you.  Think 
of  what  you  did  for  the  poor  wreck  I  was.  You 
gave  me  my  words  and  strength  to  renounce.  You 
gave  me  your  soul.  After  that  ...  I  can't  drag 
you  down!" 

Orme  saw  in  Esther  the  finest  expression  of  his 
own,  lame  spirit.  "No,  dear,  you  gave  me  yours. 
...  If  we  were  together  you  would  take  me  higher 
and  higher." 

"No,  lower  and  lower,  Robert  .  .  .  and  all  your 
struggles  would  be  useless.  I'd  destroy  the  belief 
of  every  one  in  you." 

"I  don't  care  for  their  belief." 

"You  mustn't  mind  if  I  say  it  is  very  dear  to  you. 
I  want  to  stand  aside  and  see  it  grow.  Everything 
and  every  one  will  come  to  you."  There  was  en 
treaty  in  her  tone  as  she  continued,  "Robert,  you'll 
be  kind  to  yourself  and  .  .  .  me.  You'll  not  break 
down.  You'll  be  strong." 

He  looked  away  from  her.  The  old  fear  she  had 
noticed  when  they  had  met  earlier  in  the  evening 
was  in  his  voice.  "You  take  from  me  all  my  strength 
.  .  .  then  you  ask  me  to  be  strong." 

"Robert,  ...  I  can  live  here  only  with  you. 
then  I  ask  you  to  be  strong." 

Gazing  straight  into  her  eyes  he  answered,  "I'll 
try.  I'll  be  the  best  I  can  if  you  expect  it."  Already 
in  imagination  he  figured  her  as  shut  away  from 
him  by  a  barrier.  "But  what  shall  you  do,  Esther? 


326  ESTHER  DAMON 

Won't  you  live  where  you  are  ?  If  you  wish  it  ... 
we'll  never  speak;  but  remain  near  me." 

"Robert,  .  .  .  I  can  live  here  only  with  you."  .  .  . 
There's  nothing  for  me  but  leaving.  The  roots  of 
sin  go  deep  ...  I  know  what  it  will  be  to  destroy 
them.  Here  with  you  always  present,  I  can  never 
do  it.  Reminders  must  be  avoided.  I  can't  live 
in  Freedom." 

His  glance  swept  over  the  earth.  "  Where  shall 
you  go?" 

"Home  to  ask  forgiveness  of  my  father  and 
mother.  Perhaps  they  will  let  me  live  with  them 
in  Attica." 

"Attica!  Oh,  you  poor,  dear,  foolish  girl.  You 
can't  endure  that  life.  When  you  were  a  child  you 
were  always  in  rebellion.  Now  you've  been  free  you 
can't  go  back  to  it." 

"I  don't  want  liberty,  ...  I  want  peace." 

"But  Attica  is  a  new  martyrdom,  Esther.  Don't 
go.  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  it  for  you." 

"You  forget,  Robert,"  she  returned,  with  a  sad, 
weary  smile,  "I've  been  up  here  on  the  Hill  of 
Difficulty  with  you  .  .  .  among  the  lions  that  try 
men's  souls.  .  .  .  I'm  not  afraid  of  martyrdoms." 

One  more  moment  they  lingered  face  to  face.  In 
the  presence  of  Esther's  endurance,  a  bravery  re 
vived  in  Orme.  "Do  you  wish  me  to  go  now, 
Esther?"  he  whispered. 

As  he  asked  the  question  a  new,  complete  power 
of  surrender  rose  in  the  girl,  no  strength  remained 
her  save  for  an  inclination  of  the  head.  Bereft  as 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING   GREATER        327 

she  was  of  the  self-command  to  dismiss  him,  the 
difficulty  of  departure  was  reserved  for  Orme. 
Now  she  feared  his  touch,  his  last  entreaty.  But 
his  tenderness  for  the  weak  showed  itself.  Mute 
and  motionless,  he  perceived  her  vacillation;  yet  he 
uttered  no  syllable  to  urge  an  overthrow  of  her 
decision,  nor  a  descent  from  her  chosen  high  place 
of  renunciation.  In  the  end,  when  Robert  turned 
away  it  was  as  if  he  died  a  little  in  the  act. 

She  watched  him  lurch  down  the  hill,  and  then 
she  covered  her  eyes  with  her  shawl. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

SHE  had  conquered  her  life.  She  had  gained  free 
dom  through  renunciation.  But  had  she?  What 
ever  should  prove  the  value  of  her  achievement, 
with  such  violent  effort  had  it  been  effected  that 
now,  as  Esther  leaned  against  the  tree — broken  and 
bankrupt,  her  face  thin,  pinched  with  the  ravages 
of  travail — only  the  piteous  empty  shell  of  her  re 
mained  and  this  at  a  touch  might  be  crushed.  Lov 
ing  and  living  in  the  light,  she  had  been  suddenly 
stricken  blind.  She  found  herself  in  great  fear, 
peering  into  the  darkness,  wondering  if  this  dark 
ness  would  last  forever.  She  roused  herself  with  the 
recollection  of  her  promise  to  Orme  that  their  love 
should  be  succeeded  by  something  purer,  braver, 
higher.  Her  one  poor  tatter  of  strength  lay  in  her 
vow  not  to  hinder  him  on  his  upward  path.  So  in 
silence  she  stood,  and  made  no  sign  for  him  to  return. 

Separated  from  Orme,  Esther  was  still  related  to 
him.  The  air  quivered  with  the  color  of  love.  He 
was  there  beside  her.  His  face  was  close  to  hers. 
His  words  murmured  in  her  ears.  She  clung  to 
him.  Held  by  his  memory,  she  lingered  until  the 
voices  ascending  once  more  from  the  forest,  quick 
ened  her  realization  that  it  was  late  and  that  Attica 
was  eight  miles  distant.  With  the  deepening  dusk 

3*8 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER        329 

came  the  thought  that  in  Attica  doors  would  open, 
but  Robert  would  never  enter  them.  Voices  would 
sound,  but  his  would  never  be  present  to  soften 
strange  harshnesses.  Probing  eyes  would  meet  hers, 
but  his  gentle  glance  she  should  never  see.  The 
intervening  blooming  hills,  the  singing  brooks,  the 
smiling  fields  were  a  flat,  gray  waste.  But  yonder 
lay  her  world. 

With  shawl  falling  from  her  right  arm,  she  hurried 
down  the  hill,  across  the  orchard,  as  if  passing  from 
one  strange  dream  to  another  yet  more  strange. 
Attica  was  the  sole  beckoning  haven,  and  that,  to 
her,  was  distant  as  another  continent.  She  had  no 
idea  of  the  time  her  journey  would  take,  but  it 
did  not  matter.  Nothing  mattered.  In  the  future, 
the  sun  would  rise  without  a  reason  why.  Absorbed, 
unconscious,  she  walked  on,  without  fear,  under  the 
glittering  stars.  When  she  reached  the  dusty  high 
way  leading  past  the  forest  and  lake,  but  untravelled 
by  her  in  long  eventful  months,  she  moved  with  slow, 
reluctant  feet.  This  was  the  road  she  had  pro 
scribed.  The  memory  of  the  oft-traversed,  disas 
trous  thoroughfare  caused  her  to  shudder. 

Soon  Esther  neared  the  tented  forest  resonant  with 
the  shouts  of  campers — old  familiar  sounds  of  her 
childhood.  She  stopped  to  listen.  She  would  hear 
these  in  Attica.  The  wonderful,  moving  rhythm 
of  the  hymn,"  Rescue  the  Perishing"  reverberated 
through  the  trees  and  recalled  the  day  in  church 
her  mother  had  thrust  a  hymn-book  in  her  hand. 
Oh!  to  be  singing  with  the  worshippers  those  words 


330  ESTHER  DAMON 

in  the  old  days  so  threadbare  and  lifeless,  but  now 
bearing  a  splendid,  living  message!  Not  since  be 
coming  an  outcast  had  she  sung,  and  Esther  believed 
that  if  only  she  could  sing  she  should  not  weep. 

"Rescue  the  Perishing" — who  better  than  she 
knew  what  it  was  to  perish?  Everything  mortal 
touched  by  her  had  perished.  Was  there  rescue  for 
such  as  she?  As  she  listened  to  the  hackneyed 
syllables  there  played  like  lightning  over  her  dark 
ened  soul  the  flash  of  the  child-like,  unquestioning, 
mighty,  soul-saving  faith  of  the  Methodist  church. 
Once  more  she  felt  the  spell  of  old  associations. 
Under  their  guidance  she  followed  the  wagon-road 
leading  into  the  wood.  Unknowing,  she  passed  over 
the  spot  where  she  had  yielded  to  the  flood  of  her 
first  love,  where  she  had  known  its  despair,  where 
Robert  had  found  her  and  had  begun  the  cure  of 
her  soul. 

The  forest  was  filled  with  the  crunching  horses  of 
campers  who  had  come  from  neighboring  counties. 
Through  these  she  made  her  way  until  at  last  she 
saw  the  outer  circle  of  the  encampment  surrounding 
the  great,  illuminated  white  tent  from  which  issued 
words  of  praise.  For  two  years  she  had  not  been 
in  a  church.  Now  the  presence  of  so  many  people 
worshipping  God  among  the  trees  inspired  her  with 
awe.  The  intonation  of  prayer  frightened  her.  She 
would  have  retreated,  but  there  lived  in  her  the  sense 
that  she  was  perishing,  and  that,  to  live,  she  must 
come  face  to  face  with  the  Infinite.  She  needed  no 
human  heroes.  She  was  beyond  human  help.  Her 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER        331 

anguished  heart  and  soul  could  not  now  find  in 
the  Stoics  what  Orme  had  found  there.  Only  per 
sonal  relation  with  the  great  heavenly  Father  of  the 
old  faith  could  bring  peace  to  her  soul.  Terrified 
by  even  the  melancholy  hoot  of  an  owl  she  dared 
go  no  farther  until  she  kneeled  down  upon  some 
branches  and  tried  to  pray.  The  words  remained 
inarticulate  upon  her  lips.  A  mighty  power  seemed 
to  mock  her. 

Weary  and  agitated  she  rose  and  proceeded  toward 
the  large  tent  which  seemed  lighted  with  flame. 
All  the  worshippers  were  within.  She  was  so  close 
to  the  canvas  that  she  touched  it.  Through  an 
aperture  she  observed  a  throng  of  familiar  faces  seen 
by  her  since  a  child  at  camp-meetings.  Brother 
Simpkins  was  on  his  feet  saying,  "Dear  sinner 
friends,  pray.  Jesus  is  trying  to  save  you.  He  came 
to  call  sinners,  not  the  righteous,  to  repentance.  It 
don't  matter  whether  your  prayers  are  fixed  up  in 
grammatical  style  or  not.  Pray!" 

Only  the  phrase  "dear  sinner  friends"  remained 
with  Esther.  How  few  had  been  her  friends,  how 
few  had  not  sought  her  destruction.  She  so  longed 
to  lay  her  head  on  the  bosom  of  a  friend  that  the 
ignorant,  simple-hearted  old  man  seemed  the  very 
angel  of  the  Lord.  Could  these  people  make  a 
friend  of  her  ?  Esther  moved  toward  the  side  of  the 
tent,  crawled  under  the  rope  supporting  it,  and  her 
face  framed  in  her  shawl,  she  crept  out  into  the  open. 
Her  dread  was  that  all  would  stare  at  her  as  on  that 
last  day  in  her  father's  church. 


332  ESTHER  DAMON 

Brother  Simpkins  looked  as  if  he  had  seen  an 
apparition ;  but,  on  account  of  the  confusion  and  en 
thusiasm  of  devotion,  her  presence  was  not  immedi 
ately  noticed.  Seated  on  the  platform  which  served 
as  a  pulpit  were  the  ministers  of  Elder  Damon's  con 
ference.  Esther  was  glad  her  father  was  not  among 
them,  but  she  read  in  his  absence  a  resolution  not 
to  touch  the  skirts  of  Freedom.  She  stood  for  a 
second  before  she  ventured  to  place  herself  on  the 
last  bench  protruding  from  the  tent.  Here  she  was 
alone.  During  the  exhortation,  Esther  detected 
covert  glances  cast  in  her  direction,  and  the  pain 
resulting  penetrated  even  her  spiritual  distress. 

The  speaker  was  a  young  minister  unknown  to 
Esther;  Elder  Shackelford,  of  Cleveland.  He  had 
the  Roman  features,  the  glowing  personality,  the 
intensity  of  voice  and  manner  so  often  in  the  old 
days  found  among  Methodist  ministers.  After  song 
and  prayer  he  announced  his  text:  "He  that  con- 
verteth  a  sinner  from  the  error  of  his  ways  shall  save 
a  soul  from  death  and  cover  a  multitude  of  sins." 
During  his  discourse  the  preacher  urged,  "  Conquer 
through  Jesus,  my  young  friends.  Conquer  through 
Him  who  with  spears  piercing  His  sides,  nails  tear 
ing  His  flesh  died  loving  you  and  me — not  only  you, 
the  spotless,  the  righteous,  the  born  saved,  but  you 
poor,  weak,  black-hearted  sinner.  It's  you  who  need 
Him." 

The  minister  had  much  native,  uncultivated 
ability.  His  earnest,  appealing  manner  warmed  and 
illumined  his  words.  To  Esther  it  seemed  that 


LOVE  AND   SOMETHING   GREATER        333 

Elder  Shackelford,  rising  on  his  toes  as  he  made  a 
sharp  motion  with  his  index  finger,  pointed  directly 
at  her.  This  impression  did  not  lift  as  he  proceeded, 
''Let  not  life  nor  death,  nor  things  present,  nor 
things  to  come,  nor  any  creature  separate  you; 
you — "  With  quick  gestures  the  speaker  pointed 
to  certain  unregenerate  young  people,  "from  Christ 
Jesus  who  lives  in  the  heart  of  each  of  you.  God 
gave  us  the  blessed  Jesus.  We  should  give  ourselves 
to  Him." 

Should  she?  Could  one  who  had  sinned  so  wo- 
fully  as  she  ?  To  Esther  it  seemed  that  long  before 
her  soul  had  died,  and  this  minute  was  shocked  back 
to  life  to  see  itself  a  withered,  twisted,  seared  thing 
in  which  survived  only  a  deep  longing  to  return  to 
God.  In  His  love  she  was  bathed.  He  knew  the 
truth  of  her — wayward  and  unhappy.  And  though 
she  had  put  away  her  love  for  Robert,  through  the 
lens  of  its  intensely  living  spirit,  for  the  first  time,  she 
realized  the  boundless  love  of  her  Creator  and  the 
selflessness  of  Him  wrho  gave  His  life  to  teach  men 
how  to  live.  Her  finite  love  was  so  real  a  fragment 
of  the  Infinite  that  there  was  no  longer  a  chasm 
between  her  and  her  Maker.  God's  mysteries  were 
mysteries  no  more.  The  faith  never  grasped,  even 
questioned,  almost  rejected  by  Esther,  was  now 
entirely  hers. 

Elder  Shackelford  did  not  long  exhort  the  young 
people.  He  soon  passed  to  the  motive  for  his 
presence  at  the  camp-meeting.  "My  brethren  and 
sisters,  you  not  only  have  a  duty  to  yourselves,  but 


334  ESTHER  DAMON 

to  the  entire  fallen  race.  You  are  charged  to  carry 
the  healing  gospel  unto  all  the  world.  Jesus  came 
not  only  to  save  you  in  Freedom,  but  the  poor  people 
in  China,  India,  Africa.  Don't  shirk  the  difficul 
ties,  hardships  and  perils  of  those  brave  Christians 
who  consecrate  their  lives  to  the  salvation  of  the 
heathen  over  the  sea." 

The  minister  was  not  a  great  evangelist,  but  he 
spoke  at  a  crisis  in  Esther's  life.  She  glowed  to  his 
words.  He  described  a  post  in  the  New  Hebrides 
so  girt  with  danger  to  health  and  life  that  years 
since  it  had  been  abandoned.  "I'll  tell  you  a 
secret,  young  people,"  Elder  Shackelford  said,  bend 
ing  forward  and  speaking  in  a  whisper:  "I  wouldn't 
admit  it  to  many.  I'm  ashamed  to  say  it.  I've 
been  trying  for  years  to  find  a  Christian  man  or 
woman  so  filled  with  the  spirit  of  the  Master  as  to 
go  out  to  this  post  in  the  New  Hebrides.  I  can't. 
Not  one.  Don't  you  blush  for  the  Christian  of  to 
day?  What  must  Jesus  think  of  us,  the  theological 
descendants  of  John  Wesley,  who  preached  while 
ignorant  men  stoned  him?  Aren't  you  ashamed  to 
call  yourselves  Christians  ?  You're  cowards.  What 
is  life  here  in  comfort  when  there  is  the  sacrificial 
death  of  the  missionary  to  be  died?" 

Elder  Shackelford  had  an  intimate,  personal  form 
of  address.  He  appealed  to  several  of  the  children 
of  the  clergy  and  of  the  conspicuously  devout  lay 
men  to  offer  themselves.  But  they,  shamed  of 
countenance,  shook  their  heads.  Deep  in  the  sweets 
of  youth  they  had  no  years  to  throw  away.  Esther, 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER        335 

meanwhile,  sat  nervously  moistening  her  lips — her 
white,  rigid  hands  clasped,  her  excited  eyes  half 
closed.  She  leaned  forward,  listening  in  an  ecstasy 
of  self-abandonment,  repeating  Brother  Shackelford's 
question,  "What  is  life  in  comfort  while  there  is  the 
sacrificial  death  of  the  missionary  ?  "  The  suggestion 
passed  into  her  blood.  Agitation  showed  itself  in 
her  swaying  body.  To  put  half  the  world  between 
Robert  and  her,  and  then  to  lend  the  faded,  ragged 
remnant  of  her  days  to  whomsoever  had  need  of 
her — what  was  nobler? 

Elder  Shackelford  renewed  his  appeal.  Esther 
looked  about  anxiously,  fearing  there  should  be  one 
to  wrest  from  her  the  opportunity  for  atonement. 
Hymns  were  sung  to  stir  courage,  to  incite  the  young 
people  to  sacrifice.  The  girl  sat,  her  face  buried  in 
her  hands,  so  shaken  as  to  imagine  her  emotion  had 
passed  into  the  spirit  of  those  surrounding  her,  and 
that  all  were  burning  to  accept  the  Great  Commission. 

"No  wonder  the  Holy  Ghost  don't  come  down  on 
these  meetings,"  came  the  reproachful  rich-toned 
voice  of  Elder  Shackelford.  "No  wonder  your 
hearts  don't  break  up.  You're  thinking  of  your 
comfortable  homes,  your  crops,  your  money.  Jesus' s 
is  the  only  work  neglected.  Do  you  call  yourselves 
Christians  when  you  refuse  to  be  the  first — the  very 
first,  to  tell  the  great  story?  Think  of  what  it 
means  to  be  the  very  first  to  tell  the  greatest  story 
of  history."  He  looked  about  him  with  disgust,  and 
then  said  with  severity,  "Oh,  you  prefer  grabbing 
and  grubbing  to  the  work  of  Peter  and  Paul.  Have 


336  ESTHER  DAMON 

you  ever  thought  why  they're  such  sublime  figures? 
Because  they  loved  Jesus  so  much  that  they  weren't 
afraid  of  death."  Elder  Shackelford  then  sang  a 
stanza  of  the  hymn  "From  Greenland's  icy  moun 
tains  to  India's  coral  strands."  After  a  dramatic 
pause,  with  a  sharp  contrast  of  quietude,  he  said, 
"For  the  last  time,  I  ask,  is  there  one  willing  to  accept 
this  service?" 

Esther  rose  unsteadily,  her  eyes  overflowing  with 
tears.  Now  no  mortal  ties  could  withhold  her  from 
the  summons  of  her  childhood  religion.  When  its 
seed  had  been  implanted  in  her  nature  she  could  not 
have  said;  but,  in  this  moment,  she  realized  that 
when  she  had  thought  herself  farthest  removed 
from  her  belief,  then  was  she  nearest.  Her  darkest 
disobediences,  her  darkest  despairs,  her  darkest  sins 
— all  had  contributed  to  the  growth  of  the  faith 
which  now  mastered  and  shook  her.  The  girl 
scarce  knew  her  voice  for  her  own  as  she  said,  "Here 
I  am.  Will  you  take  me?  I'll  go." 

"God  bless  the  sister!  God  bless  the  sister! 
Amen!  amen!  Hallelujah!  hallelujah!"  the  minister 
shouted.  Then  he  covered  his  face  with  a  handker 
chief,  while  he  offered  a  silent  prayer  of  gratitude. 
A  minute  later  he  clapped  his  hands.  Elder  Shackel 
ford  was  a  stranger  to  this  conference,  and  so  no 
unpleasant  recollection  was  revived  in  his  mind  by 
Esther's  offer.  "There's  a  soldier  for  the  heavenly 
camp — a  woman,  too.  Come  right  forward,  Sister." 
He  stepped  down  from  the  pulpit,  held  out  both 
hands  to  greet  the  volunteer.  "This  is  a  glorious 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER        337 

beginning.  Now,  isn't  there  some  one  else?  You 
brothers  won't  let  the  sister  go  alone." 

Elder  Shackelford  then  sang  the  Doxology.  Not 
until  he  finished  did  he  realize  the  community  of 
astonishment  possessing  the  audience.  Even  the 
most  impassioned,  demonstrative  saints  of  the  Lord 
were  voiceless,  motionless.  Only  those  on  their 
knees  exhorting  others  still  lost  in  the  wilderness  of 
error,  were  unaware  of  the  extraordinary  occurrence 
which  hushed  Brother  and  Sister  Simpkins.  Swept 
down  the  aisle  by  a  terrible  ecstasy  of  self-immola 
tion,  Esther  herself  was  not  conscious  of  the  prevail 
ing  amazement,  nor  of  the  presence  of  her  father 
and  mother.  Elder  and  Mrs.  Damon,  kneeling  far 
to  the  right,  pleading  with  one  unregenerate,  had 
not  seen  their  daughter.  The  girl  did  not  hear  the 
whispers  of  the  sisters  nor  note  the  hurried  confer 
ence  among  the  ministers.  Her  reason  and  mental 
pride  humbled,  immersed  in  sweet  spiritual  peace, 
she  kneeled  down  in  the  straw  covering  the  ground 
before  the  altar — a  long,  thick,  rough  plank.  "Oh, 
Jesus,  teach  me  how  to  be  like  my  mother,"  was  all 
she  asked. 

She  did  not  realize  that  the  young  girls  at  her  side 
shrank  from  her.  For  them  the  woman  who  bathed 
the  feet  of  Jesus  with  her  tears  was  a  dim,  Bib 
lical  figure.  Their  movement  made  an  opening  in 
the  throng  of  penitents  seeking  salvation.  In  this 
space  Esther  remained,  her  head  fallen  limp  to  the 
altar. 

Sister  Simpkins,  apparently  delegated  to  express 


338  ESTHER  DAMON 

the  feminine  sentiment  of  the  evening,  approached 
Esther.  "I'm  sorry,  Esther,"  she  whispered,  "but 
the  sisters  don't  think  it's  just  right  for  you  to  be 
here  amongst  these  young  girls.  You  can  go  out 
quietly  .  .  .  folks  won't  understand  why." 

Esther  thought  she  had  woven  for  herself  a  cover 
ing  of  steel  to  shield  her  from  the  thrusts  of  the 
world.  But  now  its  hard,  firm  surface  was  pierced, 
and  a  new,  tender  sensibility  beneath  it  quivered. 
"I  forgot,  I  forgot,"  she  stammered,  as  she  fixed  the 
sister  with  eyes  in  which  were  the  depths  of  night, 
"Perhaps  you're  right  ...  I  shouldn't  be  here." 

In  a  daze  she  looked  about  her.  Though  because 
of  its  loss  Esther  valued  innocence  higher  than  did 
her  persecutors,  she  recognized  the  error  as  hers. 
She  had  been  too  indelibly  branded  ever  again  to 
be  welcomed  by  her  sex.  She  should  have  known 
conventional  decency  was  not  her  portion.  These 
unlettered  folk,  unmindful  of  the  universal  nature 
of  error,  would  have  stoned  her.  They  understood 
only  the  small,  tepid  sins — the  sins  of  the  bright 
feather,  of  secret  societies — not  the  sins  which  cause 
Heaven  to  shudder.  Her  bespotted  life  eclipsed  their 
vision,  and  when  she  wished  to  leave  it  there  was 
none  to  care  for  her  soul.  She  had  rejected  tempta 
tion,  she  reflected,  but  she  had  crucified  and  rejected 
Jesus  until  she  was  undesired  by  the  Infinite.  She 
could  pray  long  and  labor  until  her  heart  broke, 
but  she  was  not  a  chosen  vessel  of  mercy.  She 
had  wasted  her  life.  Her  soul  and  Heaven  were 
lost. 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER       339 

Blighted  and  dishonored,  Esther  rose,  and  passed 
from  the  tent.  But  so  wide  a  perturbation  did  she 
make  in  her  environment  that  all  looked  at  the  tall, 
supple  figure,  the  pallid  cheeks,  the  staring,  burning 
eyes,  as  at  a  strange  creature  in  a  dream.  For  the 
first  time,  many  of  those  present  beheld  a  scarlet 
woman. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

IN  her  passage  from  the  altar  down  the  aisle 
Elder  Shackelford  endeavored  to  speak  with  Esther ; 
but,  gazing  straight  ahead,  she  went  on.  Unless  she 
made  haste  she  felt  that  something  within  her  would 
burst  out  into  a  horrible  shriek.  She  had  known 
every  vain  hope,  every  treachery,  every  cruelty,  and 
her  final  rejection  by  the  women  of  the  church  made 
her  feel  again  that  the  wrath  of  God  had  fallen 
upon  her.  She  had  sinned  until  she  was  an  unclean 
thing.  She  had  sinned  the  unforgivable  sin. 

Her  spirit  was  in  the  lowest  pit  of  despair  as  she 
held  her  course  away  from  the  voices  of  prayer,  from 
the  lights,  into  the  darkness.  She  could  see  no  path, 
and  she  followed  none.  She  longed  to  lose  herself 
in  the  forest  like  one  of  its  leaves,  to  work  out  her 
spiritual  destiny. 

The  startled  rabbits  and  squirrels  fled  at  her  ap 
proach  as  if  she  were  a  huntress.  Bewildered  by 
the  falling  stars,  by  the  distant  thunder,  she  stum 
bled  at  times,  but,  mindless  of  her  hands  scratched 
with  brambles,  she  picked  herself  up.  Once,  unable 
to  move,  she  lay  prostrate  on  the  damp  earth.  She 
had  come  to  a  place  named  Gethsemane.  How 
miserable  was  life  when  suffering  such  as  that  of 
those  in  this  Garden  was  permitted.  But  sud- 

340 


LOVE  AND   SOMETHING  GREATER        341 

denly  it  came  to  her  as  an  arrow  straight  from 
the  unerring  bow  of  truth  that  the  Divine  One  had 
not  driven  her  from  Him.  It  was  His  blinded,  mis 
guided  children.  Their  faith,  petrified  into  a  shell 
of  superstition,  had  estranged  from  their  hearts  the 
gentleness,  beauty  and  charity  of  their  Master. 
When  Esther  considered  their  poverty  of  intelligence 
and  of  experience,  pity  welled  up  to  her  dumb 
lips  for  those  cramped,  fettered  people  in  the  tent. 
Such  as  they  in  their  blindness  persecuted  even  the 
Son  of  Man.  Those  better  than  they  slept  while 
their  anguished  Master  prayed  alone  that  last 
night  under  the  silver-green,  gnarled,  olive  trees 
in  the  Garden. 

Esther  saw  Him  now.  Her  ardent  fancy  rejected 
traditional,  insipid  conceptions  of  Jesus.  It  wrought 
its  own  image  of  Him.  For  her  never  was  He  so 
sublime  as  when  after  His  prayers,  His  struggles 
with  His  human  self,  in  supreme  majesty,  He  rose 
above  His  carnal  nature — at  last  the  calm  con 
queror.  She  beheld  Him  turn  to  His  derelict  dis 
ciples  and  heard  Him  cry  aloud  to  them,  " Sleep  on!" 
The  realization  of  His  magnificent  victory,  His 
splendid  emancipation  from  human  limitations,  made 
Esther's  breath  come  fast,  lifted  her  to  her  feet  as 
she  imagined  the  Man  of  Sorrows  in  His  triumph 
had  risen.  When  she  faced  the  tent,  she  too  would 
have  cried,  "Sleep  on  in  your  ignorance.  I'll  make 
my  peace  not  with  you,  but  with  my  Maker." 

In  new  strength  she  retraced  her  steps,  deter 
mined  with  all  the  youth  in  her  blood  this  very 


342  ESTHER  DAMON 

hour  to  achieve  the  supreme  faith.  But,  in  time 
gone,  she  had  left  so  much  of  herself  in  the  forest 
that  now  its  flaming  image  confronted  her,  im 
portuned  her,  tempted  her.  When  her  courage 
seemed  at  its  flood  she  was  caught  in  an  undertow 
which  would  have  carried  her  backward.  Her  love 
was  not  dead.  It  survived,  greater  than  her  faith. 
It  was  the  only  undying,  divine  faith.  Why  should 
she  not  follow  it?  Despite  her  fierce  severance  of 
herself  from  her  love  she  was  still  a  woman.  Did 
not  her  highest  womanhood  lie  in  love?  Why  re 
nounce  it?  It  was  so  hard  for  Esther  to  die  to  the 
old  existence  behind  her.  It  was  so  hard  to  live  to 
the  new  existence  before.  In  this  crisis  life  was 
one  long  temptation.  With  arrogant  habit  and  in 
tensity,  dead  vanities,  dead  sins  renewed  them 
selves;  entreated  her  not  to  desert  them;  admon 
ished  she  could  not  live  without  their  delight. 

Feeling  all  against  her,  Esther  could  advance  no 
farther.  So  great  was  the  torment  of  killing  the 
flesh  that  she  fell  upon  her  knees  and  held  out  her 
hands;  but  God  turned  away  His  face.  When  she 
endeavored  to  speak,  her  tongue  clove  to  her  jaws. 
A  cold  hand  choked  back  her  words.  Two  lives, 
one  evil  and  the  other  righteous,  grappled  for  do 
minion  of  her  consciousness.  She  thought  herself 
abandoned,  dying.  She  feared  to  die  without  con 
fessing  her  ill  deeds.  This  agitated,  tore  her,  bereft 
her  of  her  voice,  until  in  abrupt  screams  there 
rushed  from  her  torrents  of  meaning  in  words  dipped 
in  her  own  blood. 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER        343 

"Oh,  Jesus,  I'm  perishing.  Save  me.  My  mother 
taught  me  to  trust  Thee,  dear  Jesus.  I  know  I've 
been  forgetful  .  .  .  I've  rebelled  .  .  .  I've  hard 
ened  my  heart  to  Thee  .  .  .  I've  doubted  Thee  .  .  . 
I've  provoked  Thee  to  anger  .  .  .  I've  been  evil, 
blessed  Jesus.  I  loved  Thy  creatures  when  I  should 
have  loved  Thee.  I  loved  my  faults.  .  .  .  My  sins 
seemed  beautiful.  I've  no  right  to  expect  Thy 
favor,  my  Father,  but  Thou  art  the  God  of  the 
poor,  the  desperate,  the  broken-hearted.  I'm  lost 
.  .  .  and  Thou  didst  die  for  poor  sinners  like  me." 

She  prayed  as  she  had  loved.  All  that  was  purest, 
noblest  in  her  life  went  into  her  plea.  Rent  by  her 
yearning  she  lifted  her  white,  woful  face  to  the 
sky.  The  black,  ominous  cloud  which  obscured 
the  heavens  was  like  a  veil  before  her  Father's  coun 
tenance — a  veil  not  to  be  pierced  by  her  supplica 
tions.  Esther's  heart  was  so  swollen  with  prayer 
that  her  pulses  ached,  but  she  went  on  lashing  her 
self  with  a  scourge  of  words.  "Forget  my  terrible 
sins,  blessed  Jesus.  Show  me  Thy  face  even  if  it 
kills  me.  ...  I  shall  die  if  I  don't  see  Thee.  If  I 
am  not  worthy  to  look  at  Thee,  O  Lord,  punish  me. 
...  I  know  I  have  struck  at  Thee.  .  .  .  Strike  at 
me  with  all  Thy  power." 

Pitching  and  tossing  in  the  anguish  of  penitence, 
Esther  was  unaware  that  those  within  the  great  tent 
had  heard  her  voice,  and  that  she  was  surrounded 
by  a  score  of  worshippers.  Knowledge  of  this  first 
came  to  the  girl  when  she  felt  the  familiar  touch  of 
her  mother's  hand  on  her  head.  Mrs.  Damon  was 


344  ESTHER  DAMON 

kneeling  by  her  side.  "It's  I,  your  mother,  .  .  . 
dear  Esther.  Your  father  is  here,  too."  The  prayer 
ful  old  eyes  of  the  mother  gazed  into  those  of  the 
daughter.  Patient,  gnarled  hands  stroked  the  girl's 
head. 

While  the  sight  of  Esther  in  her  penitence  soft 
ened  Elder  Damon,  swept  his  heart  clear  of  anger, 
it  left  him  bewildered.  He  was  not  yet  wholly  pre 
pared  to  accept  her  redemption.  He  was  still  con 
strained  to  withhold  the  parental  blessing.  He  stood 
in  silence  by  the  crushed  prisoner  of  earth.  Mrs. 
Damon,  on  the  other  hand,  had  lived  so  long  in  her 
own  heart  the  highest  spiritual  truths  of  the  Master, 
that  in  this  hour  for  which  she  had  fasted  and  prayed 
she  enfolded  her  daughter  in  her  embrace.  "Jesus 
will  not  spurn  you,  my  child,"  her  soft,  quavering 
tone  comforted.  "He  promised  to  give  to  those  who 
asked.  You  shall  not  be  driven  from  God's  altar. 
Let  us  go  back  to  the  mourner's  bench  together." 

Mrs.  Damon  endeavored  to  lift  the  girl,  but  Esther 
had  no  will  to  rise.  Still  prostrate,  she  poured  her 
soul  out  on  her  mother's  bosom,  "Oh,  mother,  for 
give  me,  forgive  me." 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  Mrs.  Damon  soothed. 

For  a  moment  the  past  seemed  to  drop  away  from 
Esther.  The  stain  was  washed  away  from  the  soul. 
Once  more  she  was  a  happy  child  in  her  mother's 
arms.  But  as  she  realized  peace  had  not  come,  de 
spair  overwhelmed  her.  "God  won't  forgive  me, 
He  has  forsaken  me,"  she  moaned.  "There  isn't 
any  mercy.  I'm  too  wicked." 


LOVE  AND   SOMETHING   GREATER        345 

Mrs.  Damon  held  her  face  close  to  that  of  Esther. 
"No,  no,  my  poor,  dear  lamb.  No  one  is  entirely 
pure.  .  .  .  Even  lilies  grow  in  mire.  Jesus  loves 
you.  He  is  waiting  to  forgive.  Didn't  He  promise 
it  in  my  vision?  He  endured  the  cross  for  you. 
He'll  give  you  rest.  Kneel  here  beside  me,  dear. 
We'll  pray  together." 

Side  by  side  they  knelt,  the  mother's  arm  en 
circling  the  waist  of  the  daughter.  Her  lips  burn 
ing  with  divine  love,  again  Esther  sought  the  God 
of  her  childhood.  "  Jesus,  Jesus,  merciful  Jesus. 
Come  to  me,  dear  Jesus.  Show  me  Thy  face  or  let 
me  die  now." 

The  eyes  of  Mrs.  Damon  filled  with  light  as  she 
supplicated,  "Breathe  on  Esther,  Holy  Spirit.  Let 
the  fires  of  God  come  down  upon  her.  She's  noth 
ing  without  Thee." 

"Amen,  amen,"  intoned  Elder  Damon,  for  the 
first  time  breaking  the  silence. 

Even  the  trees  and  the  night  seemed  to  pray  with 
Esther.  The  far-away  God  came  nearer.  To  all 
witnesses  it  was  as  if  He  descended  from  heaven 
to  help  the  girl  lift  her  cross.  From  the  shadows 
of  the  trees  dusky  figures  approached  closer  and 
closer,  a  kindly  re-enforcement  to  the  suppliant. 
Esther  Damon's  words  were  as  sparks.  They  en 
kindled  the  listeners.  The  men  and  women  knelt 
and  sang  a  hymn.  To  the  confused  mind  of  the 
penitent  these  worshippers  were  a  cloud  of  strength 
ening  angels.  Once  more  she  raised  her  distressful 
countenance  to  the  overcast  heavens.  In  the  strength 


346  ESTHER  DAMON 

of  her  terrible  despair,  she  thought  in  flashes  of  fire. 
Her  words  were  no  longer  her  words.  "Help  me, 
Oh  Father.  Thou  art  all-powerful.  .  .  .  Purify  me. 
.  .  .  Free  me,  blessed  Jesus,  and  my  hands  shall  toil 
for  Thee,  my  feet  shall  walk  for  Thee,  my  tongue 
shall  speak  for  Thee,  at  no  matter  what  cost.  The 
rack.  The  stake.  The  poisoned  arrow.  Thy  will 
be  done." 

Suddenly  the  heavens  were  luminous  with  a  light 
brighter  than  light.  Clearly  outlined  in  the  sky 
was  a  cross  of  clouds.  For  the  over-heated  imagina 
tions  of  Esther  and  of  all  these  simple  worshippers, 
it  was  as  if  they  stood  in  the  very  presence  of  the 
Almighty.  The  girl  liberated  herself  from  her  mother. 
Flinging  out  her  arms,  she  emitted  a  passionate  cry  of 
redemption  which  rang  through  the  glade  like  a 
baptismal  fire,  "Oh,  Jesus,  I  am  no  longer  blind. 
...  I  have  seen  Thee.  I  feel  the  strength  to  save 
the  world."  And  indeed,  in  the  crisis  of  revelation, 
her  unbound  hair  streaming  over  her  shoulders  like 
a  mantle  of  fire,  she  seemed  a  creature  of  miraculous 
favor.  She  seemed  pre-appointed  to  transport  and 
regenerate  mankind. 

After  such  visible  manifestation  of  the  power  of 
the  Holy  Spirit  there  came  a  moment  of  breathless 
awe.  Then  ineffable  songs  of  joy  filled  the  air. 
Through  the  medium  of  Esther  Damon,  whose  sin 
had  been  graven  on  their  hearts  with  pen  of  iron 
and  point  of  diamond,  the  worshippers  believed  that 
they  had  seen  nature  suspend  its  laws.  They  had 
beheld  the  dream  ladder  leading  to  heaven. 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER        347 

Elder  Damon  choked  with  sobs  as  he  realized 
that  in  acceptance  of  service  his  erring  child  had 
outrun  him.  He  touched  his  daughter  and  said, 
"You  have  the  power  to  save  the  world  ...  if  you 
but  believe  it.  Let  us  three  go  to  the  New  Hebrides 
together."  Holding  Esther  by  the  hand  he  led  the 
shouting,  singing,  praying  concourse  of  people  back 
to  the  deserted  tent  of  worship.  As  he  passed  down 
the  aisle,  in  a  thundering  voice  he  cried,  "I've  a  mes 
sage  from  God."  It  was  bliss  to  Esther  once  more 
to  have  the  love  and  approval  of  her  parents;  but 
she  did  not  need  their  support.  She  walked  in  the 
power  of  the  spirit. 

The  worshippers  were  so  stirred  by  this  unexpected, 
wondrous  spectacle  in  lost,  unregenerate  Freedom 
that  all  restraint  was  abandoned.  Cries  without 
ceasing  shook  the  quivering  crowd.  Their  joy  was 
deeper  over  Esther's  once  despaired-of  soul,  this 
moment  freed  from  peril,  than  had  there  always  been 
hope  for  the  girl  or  her  danger  less.  For  the  first 
time  since  the  camp-meeting  began,  barriers  to  the 
salvation  of  souls  fell  away  like  the  walls  of  Jericho. 
Melted,  unified  by  the  fire  sweeping  over  their  spirits, 
men,  women,  and  children  were  reduced  into  one 
being,  burning  with  the  consuming  love  of  God. 

"The  world  is  coming  home  to  Jesus,"  cried 
Brother  Shackelford  as  old  ministers  burst  into  tears. 
Preachers  darted  out  into  the  crowd  exhorting  sin 
ners  to  go  to  the  altar.  The  sisters  who  had  driven 
Esther  away  in  turn  became  suppliants  for  her  for 
giveness.  They  embraced  her  and  fell  upon  their 


348  ESTHER  DAMON 

knees.  Many  of  the  unregenerate,  unable  to  with 
stand  the  hurricane  of  ecstatic  fire  laying  low  the 
congregation,  and  determined  to  escape  prayer,  fled 
toward  the  forest;  but  in  the  darkness  under  the 
trees  they  gave  way.  Some  cried  aloud  for  mercy. 
Others  wept  for  joy.  And  loud  wailing  prayers  for 
sinners  mounted  to  heaven.  It  was  faith  of  the  early 
heroic  days  when  the  new  belief  stirred  the  world. 

"  Christ  is  a  blessed  Christ,"  cried  Sister  Simpkins, 
as  she  went  out  into  the  darkness  to  seek  the  unre 
generate.  "Don't  make  your  bed  in  hell.  Hell  is 
trembling." 

Brother  Simpkins  hurled  his  purse  to  the  altar, 
confessing  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "I've  cheated  the 
Lord.  Jesus  forgive  me.  All  my  idols  have  passed 
away."  Some  of  the  unsaved  women  cast  their 
bracelets,  their  rings,  into  the  straw.  Others,  in 
vehement  atonement,  tore  from  their  apparel  feathers, 
flowers,  buckles,  lace,  fringe — every  symbol  not  in 
His  name.  Bearing  witness  to  the  strengthening  of 
the  weak  and  the  deliverance  of  the  tempted,  cold, 
dead  souls  were  made  alive  to  Jesus.  The  great 
deep  in  hearts  was  broken  by  the  infection  of  the 
fierce  Pentacostal  spirit  which  passed  over  them, 
bent  them,  mastered  them  until  it  was  like  faith  gone 
mad. 

Now  at  the  altar,  Esther  had  ascended  her  Cal 
vary.  She  stood  as  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross,  her  extra 
ordinary  beauty  of  countenance  reflecting  the  light 
shining  from  her  fervent  spirit.  Another  form  of 
consciousness  of  which  until  the  present  moment  she 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER        349 

had  been  unaware,  possessed  her.  The  Esther  of 
old  had  vanished.  She  was  touched  by  no  sorrow, 
no  stress.  Her  fall  had  been  her  leap.  All  this 
travail  had  been  necessary  to  bring  her  to  God. 

So  great  was  her  desire  to  adore  that  which  can 
never  be  gauged,  named,  or  known  that  she  bent  her 
knees  in  the  straw.  Like  a  fluid  thing  she  melted  in 
prayer  of  thanksgiving  that  she  was  no  longer  a  sol 
itary  being;  that  all  other  forms  of  realization  had 
passed;  that  she  had  found  the  Eternal,  screened  by 
seeming  reality ;  that  at  last  she  was  at  one  with  all 
purity,  all  truth,  with  Absolute  love. 

On  vibrating  wings,  she  seemed  to  be  whirled  up 
ward,  but  in  the  culmination  of  her  life  so  great  was 
her  prostration  of  being  that  her  head  fell  to  the 
earth.  Where  she  sank,  there  she  lay,  outstretched, 
in  the  straw. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

DURING  the  succeeding  years,  travellers,  students, 
dreamers — all  those  rising  to  breathe  the  pure,  high 
air  of  a  nobler  development  of  civilization — found 
their  way  to  the  shy,  retired  village  made  known  to 
fame  by  Robert  Orme's  miniature  Republic.  Many 
of  the  world's  weary  here  long  lingered,  renewed  their 
spiritual  forces,  gathered  momentum  for  life.  They 
were  happy  in  the  economic  and  social  experiment, 
despite  their  apprehension  that  it  was  but  a  brilliant 
bubble  on  the  illimitable  gray  surface  of  ignorance — 
one  preappointed  to  lapse  into  the  all-pervading  ele 
ment  from  which  it  rose. 

But  in  misgivings  for  their  beloved  new  order  the 
hundreds  of  loyal  citizens  of  the  Republic  had  no 
share.  They  saw  its  boundaries  widen  until  these 
included  the  lake  and  forest  and  stretched  far  be 
yond.  Relieved  of  the  brutal,  mechanical  monotony 
which  develops  mere  beasts  of  burden,  the  citizens 
in  their  wholesome,  rational  lives,  felt  themselves  to 
be  the  men  of  the  future.  These  dwellers  in  Utopia 
did  not  believe  that  equality,  brotherhood,  and  love 
would  be  permanently  submerged  by  injustice,  plu 
tocracy,  and  hatred.  They  held  to  their  faith  that 
their  numbers  would  grow  until  one  day  a  great 
army  of  super-men  should  surge  through  life,  wipe 
away  every  tear,  right  every  wrong,  and  illumine  the 

350 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER        351 

sordid  soul  of  their  century  with  the  spirit  of  true 
democracy.  Their  leader  gave  so  largely  of  his 
own  strength  and  love  to  his  comrades  that  each  man 
forgot  he  reflected  a  great  personality.  He  felt  him 
self  to  be  Robert  Orme. 

Owing  to  Robert's  refusal  to  modify  his  controlling 
idea,  the  original  purpose  of  the  Republic  was  not 
lost  in  the  material  prosperity  against  which  it  had 
been  founded  in  protest.  The  spirit  of  fraternity 
prevailed  because  he  asked  of  another  no  service 
from  which  he  himself  shrank.  There  were  neither 
masters  nor  servants  in  the  community.  Each  day 
Orme  continued  to  exact  of  himself  the  discipline  of 
manual  labor,  and  so  he  learned  thoroughly  the 
beautiful  handicrafts  which  were  the  distinction  of 
the  Republic.  He  was  foremost,  also,  in  constructing 
the  new  buildings  scattered  throughout  the  orchard. 
His  spade  broke  the  ground  for  the  stone  chapel 
which  crowned  the  Hill  of  Difficulty.  He  laid  out  the 
walk  winding  round  the  hill  thereto.  He  planted  the 
grapevines  forming  the  arbor  which  shelters  the  path. 

When  the  plodding  villagers,  blinking  contentedly 
as  they  trod  their  narrow  furrows  of  life — reluctantly, 
as  becomes  representatives  of  conservatism  and 
solidity — at  length  realized  themselves  to  be  living 
in  a  rapidly  growing  village  which  hourly  communi 
cated  with  Ripon  by  public  conveyance,  they  at 
tributed  their  new  prosperity  to  a  belated  recognition 
of  their  own  virtues.  But  when  the  post-office  was 
enlarged  and  they  were  obliged  to  double  their  pur 
chase  of  merchandise  to  meet  the  requirements  of 
the  Republic,  judgment  of  Orme  relaxed  in  rigidity. 


352  ESTHER  DAMON 

The  philosophers  of  the  Four  Corners  guessed  maybe 
the  devil  wasn't  so  black  as  he  was  painted.  How 
ever,  only  after  most  of  them  had  passed  away,  did 
a  more  modern  and  a  kindlier  generation  see  Robert 
sufficiently  in  perspective  to  understand  his  purpose. 
They  shared  his  larger,  newer  vision.  They  co 
operated  in  his  work.  Gradually  most  of  the  vil 
lagers  became  either  citizens  of  the  Republic  or  were 
dependent  on  its  handicrafts. 

Mrs.  Brewster  was  the  last  of  her  contemporaries 
to  leave  life.  She  survived  even  Alice  Orme,  who 
died  one  winter  after  being  for  ten  years  the  richest 
and  most  respected  woman  in  the  village.  She  left 
her  fortune  to  foreign  missions.  Frequently  on  the 
arm  of  Robert,  Mrs.  Brewster  mounted  to  the  chapel 
on  the  Hill  of  Difficulty  where  she  heard  him  speak 
so  well  that  her  critical  genius  had  only  one  regret; 
he  was  not  a  Universalist  minister. 

Slowly  it  came  over  the  valiant  widow  that  with 
each  day  drew  near  an  universal,  invincible  foe.  On 
the  occasion  of  Robert's  last  visit,  sitting  upright 
in  her  rocking-chair,  her  arms  crossed  over  a  blue 
checked  apron,  in  a  premonitory  moment  she  re 
marked  with  feeble  voice  that  even  the  soldiers  of 
the  Revolution  had  to  die.  When  Orme  bent  over 
her  to  utter  an  encouraging  word  she  touched  his 
head  for  the  last  time  and  said,  "You  poor  boy, 
your  face  is  kindo'  young,  but  your  hair  is  as  white 
as  mine.  I've  lived  most  a  hundred  years,  and  I've 
had  pie  on  the  table  every  meal.  Keep  the  flag 
flying  when  I'm  gone." 

After  Mrs.  Brewster's  burial  a  curious  and  char- 


LOVE  AND   SOMETHING   GREATER        353 

acteristic  testament  revealed  that  she  had  bequeathed 
her  house  and  possessions  to  Esther  Damon.  When 
this  information  stirred  the  silence  and  the  peace 
that  had  gathered  over  the  ill-fated  woman's  disgrace, 
her  name  was  mentioned  by  the  older  inhabitants 
with  reverence  accorded  the  supernatural.  Among 
the  devout  of  Freedom  it  was  believed  that  on  the 
night  of  her  conversion  she  had  had  a  vision  of  a  world 
veiled  from  mortals.  Esther  had  never  returned  to 
Freedom  after  she  went  to  the  new  Hebrides  with 
her  parents,  and  her  coming  was  awaited  with  awe. 
Determined  that  none  of  her  substance  should  be 
wasted  on  yellow  foreigners,  Mrs.  Brewster  had  made 
Esther's  inheritance  contingent  upon  her  occupancy 
of  the  house.  Should  she  refuse  to  comply  with  the 
terms  of  the  bequest,  so  ran  the  words  of  the  docu 
ment,  the  said  properties  and  moneys  should  be 
given  to  Robert  Orme. 

For  nearly  a  generation  the  house  remained  va 
cant.  Orme  laid  no  claim  to  his  legacy,  and  Esther 
Damon  still  walked  the  way  of  the  apostles.  Follow 
ing  Mrs.  Brewster's  injunction,  Robert  renewed  the 
flag  when  it  was  faded,  and  each  spring  stirred  the 
loam  at  the  roots  of  the  hollyhocks,  peonies,  and 
roses. 

Nothing  interrupted  this  routine  until  one  tranquil 
evening  when  the  orchards  were  in  bloom,  by  the  last 
stage  from  Ripon,  there  arrived  a  traveller  in  dusky 
garments.  A  lame  hostler  still  lounged  before  the 
Ivy  Green,  and  white-haired  philosophers  congregated 
on  the  Four  Corners;  but  to  the  new-comer  all  faces 


354  ESTHER  DAMON 

were  unfamiliar.  She  looked  about  her  like  one  who 
missed  what  she  sought. 

Proceeding  down  the  main  thoroughfare,  she  saw 
enlarged,  altered  houses  and  countenances  with  which 
she  was  unacquainted.  She  encountered  a  group  of 
hatless,  buxom,  rosy  maidens  strolling  arm  in  arm. 
For  an  instant  she  forgot  that  in  grim  expiation 
she  had  left  her  youth  over  the  seas.  She  paused 
and  started  to  speak  with  the  girls,  only  to  find 
them  strangers.  Their  young  minds  were  unawak- 
ened  to  meanings  in  faces,  but  they  stopped  chat 
tering  to  gaze  after  the  phantom-like  being  whose 
eyes  were  so  like  a  flame,  and  the  soul  shining  there 
from  of  such  exquisite  fairness  that  the  woman  her 
self  seemed  of  a  substance  different  from  any  known 
to  them.  It  was  not  for  these  thoughtless  on-lookers 
to  realize  the  mysterious  correspondence  between 
her  and  the  place  where  she  had  lived  and  suffered. 
Nor  could  they  know  that  at  every  slow  step  the 
stranger  was  confronted  by  a  tragic,  passionate  image 
of  youth.  With  her  progress  the  brave  woman  who 
had  sorrowed,  served,  and  proved  herself  in  supreme, 
consecrated  loyalty,  wandered  farther  into  an  un 
familiar  country. 

When  she  came  to  the  gate  of  Mrs.  Brewster  she 
looked  in  alarm  at  the  new  buildings  erected  in  the 
orchard.  Had  time  left  nothing  unaltered?  Yes, 
the  house  before  her.  Here  was  one  untransformed 
friend  to  offer  greeting.  The  flag  was  still  flying 
from  the  roof.  The  same  blossoms  saluted  her  in 
radiant  May  beauty,  called  out  to  her  to  pluck  them. 


LOVE  AND  SOMETHING  GREATER        355 

She  herself  was  of  the  color  of  that  white  hyacinth 
which  to-morrow  would  die.  She  hastened  up  the 
walk,  tapped  nervously  at  the  door.  There  was  no 
response,  and  the  meaning  of  the  silence  renewed 
itself.  For  a  moment  she  clung  to  the  knob,  but 
soon  she  passed  over  the  threshold. 

At  last  the  dear,  homely  sitting-room  with  its 
quaint  pictures,  gleaming  coal-stove,  round  table 
covered  with  a  red  spread — everything  welcomed  her. 
When  her  glance  fell  upon  the  loom,  she  sprang  for 
ward,  tenderly  laid  hands  thereon  as  if  it  breathed 
and  had  being.  And  for  her  had  it  not  ?  How  often 
had  she  communed  with  it.  How  often  had  it  been 
to  her  a  solace  and  a  deliverance.  She  sank  into  her 
old  familiar  seat,  and  resting  her  thin,  lovely,  aging 
face  on  her  hands  she  recalled  the  afternoon  she  had 
gone  away.  When  she  saw  the  purple  thread,  un- 
dulled  by  time,  a  blur  gathered  over  the  loom,  causing 
it  to  appear  distorted,  as  if  viewed  beneath  water. 
She  raised  her  head  to  steady  her  vision.  Before  her 
was  an  apple-tree,  rugged  and  gnarled  as  an  oak, 
but  joyous  as  the  tenderest  lily  in  its  bloom,  like  unto 
the  white  illusion  bridal-veil  of  spring. 

And  yet  this  was  not  what  she  saw.  Eager  youth 
once  more  in  his  eyes,  Orme  was  moving  toward  her 
through  the  orchard.  Esther  took  up  the  shuttle 
that  had  been  so  long  in  waiting. 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


PRINTED  TN  U.S. 


A     000  589  281     5 


